Mike unlocks the door. Casually motions behind him to say Billy should lock behind him, but not actually saying a word. Stops to pick up a wooden baseball bat in the hallway, gripping it lightly with one hand casually.

Time to get out his aggression. Time to channel every piece of anger and morality problems into this whole exercise and then be done with it. Put it somewhere else.

Mike entered the room, motioning for Billy to follow, and didn't bother to wait for the door to be closed. There was a man tied to a chair, a too-scrawny Armenian in a tacky suit and gold chain. Middle age.

Mike wasted absolutely no time in taking the bat and swinging at the other's jaw like he was hellbent on getting a home run. The small-time dealer immediately broke his nose, blood flowing and bruises showing all over his cheek from the impact. He already looked like a mess.

"Red Socks win again. Hi, Petros. Long time no see."

"You FUCKING white boy, piece of--"

"Billy, do me a favour and grab that bottle of Jack Daniels from the cupboard in the kitchen?"