‘ if you were me , you wouldn’t be such a fucking asshole . ’
He leans in until his eyes are level with theirs, the answer quick and biting upon his tongue. They elicit a certain breed of anger from him, like a key only they possess in a long-dusty lock. His hand shoots forth to take hold of their arm, spinning them about as they have made to turn for the door. It was brave of them to come here -- braver still to insult him in his own domain. But they have always been brave; far too brave for their own good. Far too brave to be bearable.
“If I were you --” he spits, “I also wouldn’t be a sad little has-been, remembered only by the merit of their own outdated merchandise.” He pauses; what would follow if he were to hit them? He’s always wondered. “If I were you,” he continues, “I’d be biding my time in the Underdrome, beating the shit out of junkies for petty cash -- but I’m not, am I? I’m here -- in my office.” He straightens, releasing their arm; Holden notes with great satisfaction that his grip has left a marked image upon their battered bicep.
“But I’m not you, am I?” he croons, sighing with a theatrical sort of falseness that could be read from a great distance, “And if it’s all the same, I think I’ll keep it that way. PATHETIC isn’t a great color on me.”
