“I’ll tell you what did it,” Jeff said, the stub of a smoldering cigar dangling from his lip as he took boxes off the roller line.
“Oh hell, here we go,” Mike said, rolling his eyes in disgust. He knew what was coming. I did not, I was the new guy and I hadn’t heard all of Jeff’s blame game stories yet.
“It’s was the goddamn Freelancer Act. Her royal highness decided to open the city to every damn vigilante, psychopath, and murderer and give them license to run rough shod over the city!” Jeff slammed a box down onto the other parcel line. I swear I heard something break.
“What do you mean?” I asked, trying to sound naive. Three heads slow-turned toward me; Mike, Jeff, and another new guy who’s name I hadn’t learned yet. Everyone called him Morgan, but that sounded like a nickname. I despise nicknames.