"So, ya wanted the BITCH imprint knuckle dusters ta pay off, and correct me if I'm wrong here Eric," Circe leans down at the idot who was covered in bruises, bandages, and cold packs held on by bandages, "A pink haired teenager and her friend? Because someone told them their exes were here?"


Circe looks back at her boss, Leon. She waves to the moron in the chair. Her expression said everything about how she was having enough of this shit.


"Jersey trash," Eric spit out at her with a cough messing with his New York accent. Oh no, that was a tooth, "Might back down from a fisticuff challenge, but Bronx boys don't."


"Oh ho ho ho ho," she puts her foot on his chest and pushes the wheeled office chair back, "And yet you lost, badly, to a couple of teenage girls. Seriously," she looks up at Leon, "Why did ya hire him? Scraping the underside of the barrel is not a good idea boss."


The sigh from the man on the old warehouse's catwalk spoke volumes. "I mean, the only good thing is secrecy. No kids' corpses ta hide, and reputation wise?" She puts one hand on her hip as she smiles cruelly at Eric, "Nobody'd believe you're any kind of competent criminal. Counterfeit jeans maybe. Just maybe something THAT pathetic."


Eric then points to his left, where four other men are in a similar state to him, "I ain't the only one they beat down you Jersey bitch! They knew how to fight!"


"Huh," Circe folds her arms. Nods. Looks up at Leon, "Boss! Ya have a policy against hiring tweens as bouncers fer jobs? Sounds like skills ta promote, ya know?"


Leon let out his I'm too sober to deal with Circe being this Circe sigh. Instead he settled for heading to his office to fix that.