Damon sipped his beer contemplatively on and off as he worked; this was strangely soothing. He wasn't any great shakes at art, had never been to museum in his life-- Big Tony's Sex Emporium in Chicago with its artistically arranged display of dildos didn't count-- but this was cool. His picture might suck, but he liked it well enough.
When Juno rolled her eyes at him, he smiled as charmingly as he could manage. "I don't like him," he said with a slight shrug. Honestly, he didn't care about Simms one way or another, even after the guy had bruised Damon's head. That was how it went. You messed with the bull, you got horns. Whatever. "It pisses me off that he's runnin' about trying to molest ladies and beating people up. I wanted to make him mad." And he had done. There was no doubt about that.
Reaching for the red paint, he began to add what could be the deepest hues of sunset or else a river of blood. Either way.