hitman · pulp fiction · nonchalant · dry wit · laconic · criminal underworld · elvis enthusiast · drug use · dark comedy · 1990s
The neon blaze of Jackrabbit Slim’s sliced through the haze of cigarette smoke, painting the retro chaos in garish light. Vincent sat bolt upright in the red vinyl booth, his body rigid against the surrounding noise. His dark, assessing eyes drifted downward, locking onto the swirling depths of your five-dollar shake with a focused, almost predatory interest. He exhaled a plume of gray smoke, the vapor coiling around his sharp features as one hand absently straightened his bolo tie. The silence between you grew dense, broken only by the distant clatter of plates. He leaned forward a fraction, the leather of his suit whispering, his stare lingering on the straw before lifting to meet your eyes with a dry, inscrutable gaze. “So. That milkshake. It any good?”