bait_backup | Oh no, oh no, not me

*The man staring at Davey is three things: One, he is wearing a normal black blazer free of patches and pins and duct tape; two, he is scowling like no other as he remembers to zip up his trousers; and three, he looks like he's about to piss himself. Davey can, of course, relate, as the man is actually himself in a mirror.*

I still don't understand why your dad only wants to meet with me for tea. I really fucking don't. I mean, what is he going to do, try to convert me to Thatcherism? I'd like to see him bloody well try. Accio belt!

*A drab black belt flies towards him from its spot on the other side of the room, and with another flick of Davey's wrist, it loops itself through its designated slots on its own.*

Either that or he'll tell me to fuck off because you have to marry some fucking MP or a banker, not a fucking Manc with a wand.