"Where did he go?"
"I don't know, and even if I did, I'm not obliged to tell you,"
"He better not have gone into that den to mess with the boss,"
"And why not? We found it first. That makes it ours."
"You trying to pick a fight with me, runt?"
"I'm not, but I wouldn't mind if you were. It's been a while since I've laid hands on someone."
"J-Just get out of here. The boss is ours."
"Oh sure, by all means, make me."
Two voices clashed, arguing back and forth with no progress in their 'negotiations.' One voice was hot-tempered, sharp, and filled with frustration, a powder keg ready to explode. And its owner had no options but to hold back the keg, knowing that any retaliation might tip the scales into a fight he wasn't confident he could win—especially against his opponent, whose voice dripped with apathetic sharpness.
