Red's rollin' around, uncomfortable; still, not responsible. There's a way to finish off assholes so that they don't second a second go at you; Frank's standing here living proof. He throws his jacket over a counter chair. His vest hits the counter in front of it a moment later.

Frank rolls his neck, vertebrae cracking with a content moan. "Not the true believers, Red. You should know, you know? Not so easy to give up a code when you're indoctrinated." He hates, more than a little, that these fuckers are using his symbol. His fucking skull. They don't know but that doesn't make it right. They've all got flag tattoos like it means something to them, the stars, the stripes. They don't know shit.

He turns to the counter to watch the coffee drip into the pot. Breathes. "I appreciate the back up. You could have walked. This isn't your fight."