[ mickey has not gone hunting once in his life, but he handles the rifle like it's second nature. things that happen when you grow up mobster. after the last of the worm things stops moving, the safety's flicked back on and the barrel of the AK's rested on his shoulder as mickey takes a careful few steps closer, nose wrinkling in disgust. ]

Jesus, those are some nasty little fucks. [ he's brought a hand up now to cover his nose, and mickey's not getting closer than 5 or so yards to the nearest dead thing. gross. ]

Is this the kind of shit you people usually have going on here? Maybe clean the goddamn streets once in a while, you think?