[She's doing her best to delay it, but he's on the verge of an outburst. He doesn't cry, he doesn't beg the fucking universe to give him his due, because it won't. Nothing, nobody, none of it gives a fuck. So someone said this shit would work? Well yeah, that's how they make a quick buck on the hopes of the poor assholes they've gotten addicted to this stuff, who need help. It's the same goddamned story over and over again, repeated in kaleidoscope facets of the world with every drug you pick.

Shit, it isn't even like this is his fault, he was fucking murdered, not a junkie.

He takes a slow, ragged breath, his nose and throat feeling raw from uselessly inhaling that ash, and pushes Chrissy away so he can sit up, then stand.]

Not everyone who promises shit means it, babe. Sometimes they just wanna take advantage of a couple suckers.

[He takes the hammer in hand again, then nudges the tool belt toward Chrissy.]

Those come with us.

[He sees those bottles of vide noir over there, by the way. He knows exactly what they are, just from the look of the stuff. He'd smash every last one of them with this hammer but it would go splattering everywhere, and he'd rather not come into any kind of contact with it. Instead, he starts at the registers, delivering a solid blow to one once, then twice, then again and again until sparks fly.]