“What’s he had?” I ask Raid in exasperation. “A Red Bull, three shots of vodka, all of my joint—fuck you very much, Bunk—and some other shit he snorted,” Raid tells me, ticking off a finger as he does. “Alright,” I start, huffing as I tug up the sleeves of my leather jacket. “Time to go.” Bunky shoots me a look, eyes wide as he drops his jaw and whines. “I don’t want to go. I’m fine.”
