Mike isn't even going to make this easy. And not because he's high as shit, because he'd be difficult about this even if he were sober. It's because Mike is a fucking tool, and no wonder the only time he didn't want to punch the other in the face was when he was high as shit, too.

How the fuck did he let all this go on so long?

"With this," he says, and his patience is already gone, already beyond worn thin, and it seems like the only person who can do that to him is Mike. He takes the hitter and the pill bottle and tosses them back on the table, sending pills scattering. But he doesn't care. He just needs them out of his hands, out of sight. "The drugs. And you."