What’s so great about dyin’?
LET’S DRINK TO LIVIN’!
Mitchell looked disgusted. He paced off a distance, paused and turned back. Dogtown’s tranquil silence seemed to be mocking him, knowing what was afoot.
“Joker,” he said, “you don’t see me doing one damn thing about this, do you?” He gestured. “Know why? Because it’s a standoff, is why. Even if it was different, I still wouldn’t horn in. You call me a doer. Okay, so maybe I’ve done a few things in my time. But it doesn’t signify. People aren’t worth it anymore. They grovel to a man when they want him to stand up for them, then call him a hired killer and a bum when the trouble’s over. Don’t you think I know this lousy hero game inside out?”
Junee looked somber.
“I guess you’re right, Mr. Mitchell. Maybe I should go sleep it off.” He spread his hands. “Look at me. A sawn-off, forty-five year-old drunk wantin’ to be somethin’. Loco, ain’t it?”
“You said it, not me.”