"We can do this 'answering a question with a question' thing all night long, except I have to be at work at six a.m. so how about you tell me what you really want to know and tell me why you look like – screw that – are my MOTHER's clone," I sighed.
"Tell me about your genetic heritage," O'Shea demanded. She was that kind of authoritative prick – actual p***s not required.
"I apologize. I don't seem to have a handle your native vocabulary and your English-as-a-Second Language skills suck," I sneered. "I should go home now."
Moorish guy blocked my egress. English chick was on my right flank, back to the limo and the street. The most pressing issue was a matter of privilege; O'Shea's people thought they'd get away with breaking the law. The moment the Moor popped out is baton, it was 'on'
