"Listen, sunflower. Enough is enough, allright." Drake says. "We've all had our troubles tonight, and I ain't judging none of you by what I saw today. You could be the sweetest flower known to mankind, or you could be an arrogant feckin' bitch. I don't know, 'cause I know I sure as hell ain't reacting feckin' normal, and I suspect you ain't either.
I've offered peace, I feckin' suggest you feckin' take it and wait untill you've got your




together before you start mouthing off a pissed off Irishman a head taller and 60 lb heavier then you. For all you know I've got a feckin' blade the size of your forearm tucked behind my back and a string of girls ears around my neck. Your adrenalin is talking, not you."
With an effort he composes himself.
"Look, Faith. I offered you my hand. You took it. Leave it at that and stop pissing me off even more. We all have had a bad day, but you're only making it feckin' worse. Who the feck are you to feckin' judge me on a night like this. You don't feckin know me. Hell,
I don't feckin' know me after tonight. Part of me wants to pound you into little snotty bits, and part of me is horrified of even thinking about beating a sixteen year old girl, or whatever age you are. So stop feckin' pushing me."
The last sentence comes out as a snarl.