Max exhaled a deep and frustrated breath, the air burst between the gaps in his gritted teeth like a stretch of erupting geezers. As if the stress of an impending undead airstrike wasn't enough, he was having to battle his way through resistance and sneered comments from the very people he was trying to protect.
"For the last time, Brenda, I don't give a s**t about your massage table, if it's made of wood or metal, it goes on the wall," he seethed, his authoritative words quickly running away from him into an exhausted sigh.
"I don't think you realise how hard these are to come by," Brenda started to argue for the umpteenth time. She had clearly come into the confrontation with a formulated argument and wasn't leaving until she had what she wanted.
Max was sick and tired having to treat
