Werewolf in a Pub: Predator Instincts, Fenrir & Almost Violence | Dark Supernatural Podcast (Ep. 249)

A werewolf walks through the city… trying not to kill anyone.

In this darkly comic and unsettling episode of Werewolf the Podcast, Simon leaves a body behind and heads into the ordinary world—where nothing is ever truly ordinary.

Accompanied by the ancient wolf Fenrir, he navigates crowded streets, an overpriced market, and finally a grim British pub—where predator instinct and civilisation collide.

What should be a simple drink becomes a test of control.

A stare too long.
A stranger too close.
A moment away from violence.

Because beneath the surface, something is always waiting to break.

Blending sharp humour, psychological insight, and supernatural tension, this episode explores what it really means to be a monster… trying to behave.

Perfect for fans of:

• Werewolf stories and mythology
• Dark comedy horror
• Supernatural thriller podcasts
• Antihero and villain protagonists
• Psychological tension and inner conflict

Go find all things Jim Maerk at the Old man's Podcast

Books by Fenrir Thorvaldsen

Authors' page on Amazon.

https://amzn.to/3OJkzD0

The Werewolf's Story by Fenrir Thorvaldsen

https://amzn.to/4aX18xP 

Books by Gregory Alexander-Sharp

Authors' page on Amazon

https://amzn.to/4cTtf3C

Il Lupo by Gregory Alexander-Sharp

https://amzn.to/4aZyCvA

Buy us a coffee at this link right here:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/Werewolfwil

Grendel Press, our horror genre partner

The best indie house publishers of horror in the blooming world

https://grendelpress.com/

Grendel's very own cool Podcast.

https://grendelpress.com/sinister-soup. 

Join the Lunatics at the Private Facebook Group.

Facebook Group

https://www.facebook.com/groups/werewolfthepodcast/

Greg's X profile: @SempaiGreg

Fenrir's X profile: @FenThorvaldsen

Werewolf the Podcast X profile: @AWerewolfsStoryWil

Intro partnership with Grendel Press.

https://grendelpress.com/

Outro partnership with Grendel Press.

https://grendelpress.com/

Transcript

I left the police station without looking back.

Whistling a happy tune of sorts.

Job done.

Buildings like that preferred not to be stared at. 

They had a way of remembering faces, and the less it remembered of mine, the better for those who worked there.

Because those who knew of stuff like me had a horrible way of tidying themselves up after... me, and against their will.

I can’t lie.

I liked that, but I could not rely on the tidying up too often. 

People who made my life easy got pissy at me. 

Life was easier if they did not get pissy. 

And the way to keep them from getting too pissy was not to need them too frequently.

The afternoon light was thin and bright, the sort of light that made everything appear honest. 

It was the type of light that’s not too bright but makes you squint, anyway.

It’s fucking weird that weak light does that?

I did not feel particularly honest about what I had done in that cell.

I mean.

I had to do it.

It was the sort of thing I do.

I tried to feel satisfied.

But that was difficult to.

I mean, it was something I would regret for a long time.

But I had done it.

Yup.

I had purchased two E-Type Jaguars that morning for far more than they were fucking worth.

British Racing Green and silver.

Proper colours of cars when cars were proper colours. 

None of this modern ‘Greige’ shit. 

Griege is a sad blend of grey and beige.

Okay, Giorgio Armani decided on that being a colour, but to be honest. 

He should stick to fecking clothes.

Can you imagine asking as a bloke for a fucking greige car?

No, my new old cars were British Racing Green and Silver.

They had long bonnets like drawn blades.

‘Penis size issues much?’ Smirked my invisible companion.

‘That’s a stereotyped conclusion.’ I responded far too quickly.

‘I do not have penis size issues that I have to make up for by buying a penis-shaped cars.’ I told the wolf with vehemence.

I thought about what I had just blurted.

Oh... shit.

The truth was.

Well, the E-type is a proper penis-like-shaped car. 

Hmm!

Did I have a deep-seated, unrecognised fear that I had a small dick?

**pause**

Anyway, moving on before I psychologically analyse that into a mental issue. 

There are some moments in a man’s life when the acquisition of a beautiful machine is justification enough for celebration.

This was now one. 

‘Should killing Nicha not trouble you?’ rumbled the wolf soul in my head. 

It broke my thoughts of cars.

‘Eh?’ 

The wolf soul started laughing hard. 

Oh, he was joking.

‘Who was Nicha?’ I replied. 

Continuing the joke.

I knew who Nicha was. 

Of course I did.

Am not thick.

I’d just killed him.

I think.

It had just been work.

People imagine killing to be accompanied by thunderclaps, violins, and moral reckoning. 

In reality, it was just what it was. 

Killing.

It was just... that.

Stopping a living thing... living.

Others found it... difficult for some reason.

I never got it.

It’s really very easy to kill. 

Especially people.

They are not made to last.

I mean, they are very delicate if you think about it. 

But other folk find it difficult.

The killing that is.

So I do what is... probably needed, and I am proper good at it.

I walked on. 

Fenrir walked beside me.

Not a metaphor. 

Not quite a hallucination. 

He padded along the pavement as though the city had been built with him particularly in mind. 

He was a much larger specimen of Wolf than any zoological authority would approve of, black as coal dust. 

Eye’s bright like a diamond.

Shit, was that a Rihanna song quote? 

‘Not quite.’ Replied the wolf without embarrassment. 

‘hmmm!’

But to continue the description I had begun. 

Fenrir was made of that particular density of shadow that the eye refuses to focus on.

Where the wolf walked, people drifted away, leaving his space uninvaded.

No one ran from him and the scene.

No one screamed in terror at his presence.

He was there in their heads, but not there in their heads.

‘That made no sense,’ but did. 

The English language is proper strange. 

Anyway, people simply adjusted their course with the unconscious precision of prey animals who have remembered something very old about what they used to be. 

A mother tugged her child closer, knowing no reason to do so. 

She was just struck by a feeling she should protect her young.

While she did it.

The protecting.

A businessman crossed the street without knowing why. 

Something in his head told him that he should. 

That something was right and should be listened to.

It was that ancient bit of his brain that cared not about the Dow Jones or the price of a barrel of oil, but about surviving the day when beasties who want to eat you are about. 

What this avoidance meant was that the space around us formed and reformed like water parting around a stone.

‘Always overly dramatic,’ I muttered.

Fenrir did not answer in verbalised words. 

How do I describe it to the unwolfy souled?

The wolf’s presence pressed against the inside of my skull like the suggestion of blood and teeth. 

‘You enjoy the drama of it.’ The Wolf flashed into my mind.

‘Don’t flatter yourself.’ I replied.

I did.

Enjoy it.

The drama we created in people.

I mean.

This duo were worth avoiding.

We now moved through a market at the edge of town, where striped canvas stalls flapped like tired flags and the air smelled of frying onions, perfume and apples stacked in patient pyramids.

Something was annoying the wolf.

I felt it.

‘What is it?’ I asked him.

**Pause**

‘What the fuck is an Artisanal Market?’ Asked the wolf. 

‘Never heard of one of them before.’

I considered this.

They were a fairly new thing to me. 

‘I think it is where the middle classes come and pay massively over the odds for organic things and gin someone made in their bath at home flavoured with rust, spit and rare and specialised horse shit.’

‘Huh?’ Replied the wolf, ‘humans are proper mental, huh?’ he said as he paused and looked around himself as if noticing the place properly for the first time. 

‘Self-important wankers.’ He continued.

‘What happened to farmers' markets?’

‘Oh Fen... You need to keep up. They are so last decade.’ I told him not breaking stride.

‘Huh?’ he said in my head and then began to catch up with me in his easy lope.

As I continued to walk through the unknowing but feeling crowd, my hand passed over a crate as casually as a blessing and came away with a bright red, gigantic, organic, orgasmic-looking apple. 

I sank my teeth into its flesh.

The skin cracked loudly. 

Juice ran over my thumb.

It tasted...

It tasted of apple.

I mean, not just Apple, but APPLE!

The hipster stallholder, with his ironic moustache, leather apron, and Bowler hat, saw me take his treasure.

Of course, he saw me take it. 

He was meant to.

If I did not want him to see me take it, I would not let him see me take it, but I did, so he saw it.

Wow. That was a sentence and a bit.

‘You just love to cause shit, don’t ya?’ Fen messaged.

Yup.

The Peaky Blinders costumed wanker called after me.

‘Hey, you,’ he shouted.

‘Hey, you’ was not very ironic, hipster, was it?

What should he have said in hipster ease?

‘What ho?’ Perhaps.

Had he already fallen out of character?

That was ironic.

I stopped dead while holding the apple to my mouth, and an inward smile spread across my inward... er mouth?

‘Pay for that?’ Bowler hat protested.

It was a protest. 

A confrontation, but it was also cast as a question.

I stopped.

I turned.

It was no dramatic turn. 

No swirling Neo-style coat.

No cinematic moment. 

Just a pivot.

I then hit the man with a look.

The look.

I did not snarl. 

I measured.

The man’s voice died in his throat. 

I love these moments.

Civilisation stops.

All human rights and laws die for a moment of consideration.

Hairs rose where hairs had not risen before on the man now at the centre of the world. 

For some unbeknownst reason to him, adrenaline was pumped into his veins at a far higher volume than this particular confrontation should have required.

His animal brain was making decisions for him.

In my eyes, he saw something he had not seen since he was on a safari as a child with his family.

It had been in a far-distant country. 

A far distant country in both time and space. 

He had seen my look before.

It was the look an old lion had given him and his family in the tourist-laden truck before that lion decided whether it was worth the effort.

The look said lion had given him before it decided not to bother. 

Around us, the market noise dipped slightly, as nature smelled possible trouble.

A spoon clattered somewhere. 

Someone laughed too loudly and uncomfortably.

Fenrir’s tail swayed.

‘Give him the bloody money before he messes his ironic pants.’

I felt irritation spark in me.

‘He is prey.’ 

‘Nope, he’s not.’ Was the annoyed reply.

‘He’s just an irritating arsehole trying to pretend he is important and taking money from idiots who pay for overpriced produce which he can sell, thinking that he is doing the world good when we all know it is fucked.’

‘Look, he is using biodegradable brown paper bags.’

‘What a fucking special guy.’

‘Ouch,’ I replied

‘Down on the world much?’

He snarled.

‘Look at the fucking price of the things.’

‘Apples. Three quid each?’ 

‘Fucks sake!’

‘Well, still. He’s a robbing bastard robbing the overly compensated bastards who want to buy his shit, not... prey.’

I considered this. 

The wolf was old in ways I was not. 

Old in hunger, old in restraint.

I decided that it was not worth arguing or making a point of the apple seller.

I looked at him harder, taking another bite, considering him  like the Lion the man had once met eyes with in his past.

I took another bite of the apple, maintaining the stare.

Both apple and stare were delicious to my senses.

I chewed as I held his eyes even longer. 

Eventually, I smiled and nodded.

Relief played across the stallholder's face. 

Then confusion hit it.

He didn’t really understand the overwhelming relief he felt in this moment.

‘Fine,’ I sighed, as though inconvenienced by etiquette.

I walked back toward the stall.

The perfectly manicured man’s hands trembled as I closed the distance on him. 

He was telling himself he was being foolish in his head. 

That I was only a man. 

Okay, just a man.

A large, slightly terrifying man in a dark coat, but still with his apple juice on their fingers. 

The trembling did not stop.

I slipped my hand into my pocket.

There is a particular terror in watching a predator produce something hidden. 

With cats, it’s their claws that unsheath. 

With wolves, it's teeth that become resplendent with a snarl.

It contains centuries of evolutionary memory for a prey species’s brain.

The man braced for... something horrid.

I withdrew my wallet and offered a knowing smile.

From the wallet, I extracted a fifty-pound note. 

Crisp. 

Indifferent.

And laid it gently on the apples.

‘For the inconvenience,’ I told him and smiled my bestest smile.

It was not a cruel smile. 

That would have been easier for the man to deal with.

It was amused. 

As if the entire exchange were a private joke, that the man had narrowly survived.

And who knows, perhaps he had survived it.

I reached out and patted the grocer's shoulder.

The touch was light.

He nearly collapsed with relief when the hand lifted.

‘Keep the change,’ I added.

Confrontation over.

Done.

I turned and walked away, biting the last bite of the apple and tossing the core casually over my right shoulder.

The man was still holding the edge of his stall for the comfort of something solid to support him as an apple core bounced off his forehead.

His heart hammered. 

He did not know what had just brushed past him, only that it had assessed him and found him unworthy of... Well, that was not worth thinking about.

He would go home early that day. 

To Gwendoline, his handfasted partner and Farqhuar and Bean, his little ones.

He would tell no one why he had closed up early.

He just felt he’d had a moment.

Fen and I returned to the current of the town. 

The wolf kept pace, vast and silent.

‘You really enjoy doing that shit, eh?’ Fenrir observed.

‘A little.’

‘You frightened him.’

‘I paid.’

‘You frightened him first.’

I shrugged. ‘Occupational hazard.’

‘Comes with the occupation of being a monstrous bastard.’

We passed shop windows. 

Reflections flickered, man and something larger moving beside him, though only one cast a reliable reflection.

My new old Jaguar waited somewhere beyond this square, polished and predatory in its own mechanical way.

I imagined the feel of the wooden steering wheel beneath my hands. 

I imagined the engine’s growl, sweet as I licked the last of the apple juice from my fingers.

Nicha was already a closed file. 

The dead rarely lingered in my mind unless they had unfinished business. 

Nicha had none and no business now to be there.

The wolf’s ears twitched.

For a moment, just a moment, it felt as if someone else was watching us. 

Not prey. 

Not the police.

Something older.

‘Lucifer?’ Asked the wolf.

‘Not sure. I can’t hear her music.’ 

I dismissed it.

‘Drink first,’ I said aloud. 

‘Then we consider who’s stalking whom.’

Fenrir’s teeth showed in something that might have been agreement.

‘Whoever is watching is someone who sees me. Which is... motivating.’ There was amusement in his tone.

I walked on, and the crowd continued to part, not because they saw the wolf.

But because, somewhere beneath language and reason and city noise, they felt him.

I left the market behind me.

Ahead loomed a temple to government benefits.

A Wetherspoons pub.

The building had once been something noble. 

A bank, perhaps, or a municipal hall, before being repurposed into a place of discounted lager and microwave cuisine. 

The signage buzzed faintly, even though it was neither neon nor electrified.

The windows were large enough to expose the interior like an aquarium filled with the economically unfortunate.

Fenrir slowed.

‘Are we going in there?’ A hint of disgust in his voice.

‘I need a drink.’ I told him.

‘This is not our usual hunting ground.’ 

‘Everything is hunting ground.’ I reassured him.

I smiled as I pushed my way through the smokers who stood outside the hallowed hovel.

All silent except for the expectoration of phlegm and the drag of fucked lungs, sucking hard for a nicotine hit on mainly rollies and Silk Cut.

They disgusted me.

Addicts.

Fen laughed.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘We are all addicts.’ He returned.

I knew he was right. 

At least my addictions did not kill me. 

Others, yes. 

Me not so much.

I pushed through the doors.

The new stink hit me first.

Not any fresher than the stench of smoke that I just left. 

Different though.

Stale beer. 

Frying oil. 

Carpet cleaner doing its very best against forces it could not hope to defeat. 

There was also something faintly sweet and tragic, like spilt cider and unrealised potential.

I paused just inside.

The Faeton Arms, my unusual usual haunt, flickered in my mind. 

Dark wood, low light, goblins gambling in corners, zombies arguing about philosophy in slow, thoughtful groans.

It had a certain charm. 

Predatory, yes. 

Sinister, absolutely. 

But refined in its own infernal way.

This place…

This place was a scene of democratic decay.

At a table near the window sat three men who looked as though they had been poured into their chairs in 1997 and never fully reassembled. 

Their skin had that faint greyish cast of individuals whose primary light source is television. 

One blinked slowly at nothing in particular. 

Another chewed with the patient dedication of a cow contemplating eternity.

‘Zombies,’ Fenrir observed.

‘No,’ I replied internally. 

‘Zombies have purpose. They move toward something.’

‘Well, these move toward refills.’ Fen said.

Near the fruit machine, a cluster of women with sharp laughter and sharper eyeliner clutched fluorescent cocktails. 

Their hair was sprayed into architectural defiance. 

One wore leopard print in a manner that suggested she had defeated it personally. 

They cackled in overlapping bursts, circling an invisible hierarchy.

Goblins.

Faeton goblins at least understood contracts. 

These ones negotiated social dominance with prosecco and passive aggression.

A big man in a high-visibility vest slept upright in a booth, mouth open, emitting a low rumble that vibrated the condiments.

‘Troll,’ Fenrir offered.

‘Bridge adjacent,’ I replied dryly.

Further in, a lone figure hunched over a laptop, nursing a half pint as if it were a long-term investment. 

His expression was one of permanent grievance. 

He radiated the air of someone who had read half an article about something and would happily explain it to anyone unfortunate enough to make eye contact with him.

‘Warlock without power.’ Fen commented.

‘Cruel,’ Wil thought.

‘Accurate.’

I moved through them and, as before, space opened. 

Subtly. 

Chairs shifted. 

Conversations dipped. 

No one consciously registered me, but something old in their spines did.

We reached the bar.

And blinked.

Behind it stood a woman who appeared to have stepped directly out of 1986 and had refused to apologise. 

Her hair was a monument. 

Teased, lacquered, ambitious. 

Shoulder pads broadened her silhouette into something approaching military architecture. 

Her eye shadow shimmered blue defiantly.

She looked at me, masticating something in her mouth that I hoped was some sort of gum.

She paused her mastication as her gaze travelled over my body.

Slowly.

Uncomfortably.

‘Well,’ she said, voice textured with decades of cigarettes and unfulfilled romance. 

‘You’re a bit of alright stuff, aren’t you love?’

I just fucking stared at it.

Fenrir lifted his head.

‘Hag?’ He questioned.

**pause**

‘She’s not a hag.’ I returned.

‘I think.’ 

I was not really sure in this case. 

The... woman had some sort of power. 

Definitely.

It was a corrosive power.

A power that would denigrate a person's soul.

I considered her further.

‘Not a hag? But she is some sort of ancient predator disguised in synthetic fibres.’ 

‘She’s sixty.’

‘And does not look a day over one hundred and seven.’

‘Precisely.’

The woman leaned forward slightly, exposing a wrinkly cleavage that was the whole point of her outfit to expose.  

A cleavage that was being supported by a creaking support structure of a fully scaffolded bra.

That bra was probably the reason that her nipples did not dive into the beer pumps drip trays. 

‘What can I do for you, love?’ 

I blinked in no response.

She sighed and regarded the blood-red talons glued to the ends of her fingers, pretending to be fingernails.

‘What would you like me to get you?’ it continued as it chewed... it’s...cud?

‘In trouble?’ She continued as she winked almost coquettishly and patted the solid curl of her... erm... hair.

I turned and made eye contact with my invisible wolf soul, who sat next to me. 

We both shuddered, and it took me a few moments to get back to some sort of level of composure. 

‘Pint of draught Bass.’ I told... the her.

She. Seemed to approve.

‘Proper man’s drink’, she replied, with another wink that made my balls shrink back inside my body.

Fenrir made a low mental sound of disapproval.

‘She would keep bones in jars, I reckon.’

‘She definitely keeps her face in one.’

‘I mean, you could peel that shit off and use it on’t next day.’

‘Okay, okay... stop, please.’ I asked him.

He knew me so well that he realised my tone was that of genuine request and that I would be grateful if he did not try to continue any level of humour around this poor unfortunate... erm... woman while she poured my beer with competent indifference to the laws of physics. 

The amber liquid settled into the glass with a respectable head.

She placed it in front of me.

‘On the house if you smile again like that.’ She said, batting her cosmetic-encrusted eyelids.

‘I didn’t smile.’ I told her in defence.

‘Oh, you did.’ She replied and lied.

I took the pint in disgust.

‘I’m not a piece of meat.’ I said in my head to Fen, who laughed hard in response. 

I gave her a fiver and turned away so I did not need to observe her any longer. 

The glass and the beer felt reassuringly solid.

I clung to it briefly.

It gave a minor comfort in a minor time of need. 

I surveyed the room again. 

The Faeton Arms would have approved of the lighting. 

Dim, forgiving. 

But where Faeton held monsters who knew they were monsters, this place held humans convinced they were fine.

I raised the glass to the room, offering the creatures here a salute, then brought the glass to my lips.

The first sip was acceptable. Malty. Bitter. Honest.

‘Oi.’

Shit.

Well, at least it was an old-fashioned, honest fucking Oi and it had landed beside me like a dropped plate.

‘This should be entertaining.’ Came to mind from Fen.

I did not turn immediately.

‘Oi, mate.’

The scent hit before the voice finished forming. 

Cheap lager. 

Stale sweat. 

Cigarettes.

Something medicinal and wrong.

A man leaned into my peripheral vision.

He looked in his mid-forties, but was probably in his late twenties as a resident of this particular establishment. 

He had a face that flushed the colour of poorly cooked ham.  

Cheap ham. 

Not good ham. 

Bad ham. 

The kind of ham that is cured with chemicals. 

That kind of ham.

Fen butted in.

‘Please shut the fuck up about ham.’

The eyes in the misshapen head that had said 'Oi' at me were unfocused but ambitiously trying to meet mine.

‘Seen you before,’ the man declared as he wiped his nose with his fake Stone Island jumper. 

He clearly had not.

I felt it.

That tightening.

That thin electric filament of irritation stretching from my spine to my fingertips.

Fenrir rose.

‘It approaches boldly.’

‘I am aware.’

The drunk swayed closer. 

‘You look like… like one of them.’ He faltered as he tried with difficulty to build a sentence with an alcohol fuddled or is it befuddled brain.

‘Befuddled.’ Said the wolf.

‘Look like one of what?’ I asked and genuinely wondered.

‘One of them army blokes.’

‘You in the army?’

‘Bet you is.’

Fucks sake. 

I looked at my pint with a little nostalgia for only moments ago when I was enjoying it without any distractions before turning towards the man made of ham. 

‘I wish he were quiet.’ I told my wolf outloud.

Causing the man of ham to look for who it was that I was talking to. 

I imagined the man’s neck in my hand as Nicha’s had been not half an hour before.

It would take so little.

A twist. 

A push. 

A quiet rearrangement of small bones and cartilage.

To have my quiet pint back.

The pub would continue. 

The fruit machine would chime. 

The not goblins would continue to laugh.

No one would understand what had happened.

The man would just collapse. 

A venue of this distinct lack of quality must have seen its fair number of coronaries and strokes.

It would not question a sudden death or six. 

My jaw tightened.

The wolf pressed closer.

‘He insults you with familiarity.’

‘I think I know.’ I told Fen.

The drunk reached out as if to clap me on the shoulder.

My vision narrowed.

He was trying to fucking touch me. 

The world thinned.

Then...

A different hand landed on my shoulder from someone unnoticed.

... someone unnoticed!

That was a shock to both the wolf and me.

This hand was firm and so confidently sure of itself that I did not tear the arm off at the shoulder, as would be my natural, normal response and want.

‘Now now, old chap,’ said a calm, impeccably educated voice at my side. 

‘I believe this gentleman was in the middle of something,’ it continued

I turned very slowly toward the voice.

Wing Commander Montgomery Fortescue and moustache stood there as though they had always been present.

He was his usual immaculate.

In an ancient tweed suit that suggested both authority and quiet disapproval of everything else.

His expression was polite. 

Almost gentle.

The drunk blinked at him.

‘Who’re you then?’

Fortescue and his moustache smiled in a way that could have resolved minor wars.

‘Someone who would very much prefer you to enjoy a complimentary drink at the other end of the bar, sir.’

‘This chap and I have to converse about important things of this day.’

Fortescue produced a note with effortless discretion and passed it to the barhag.

‘Another pint for this man. My treat, and one for yourself, Mamouselle.’ His gigantic, hairy caterpillar eyebrows waggled.

The... woman beamed.

She actually kicked a heel as she turned and snatched the note from the Wing Commander's hand.

The drunk hesitated, confused by the sudden shift in social gravity.

Fortescue’s eyes sharpened by a fraction.

‘And perhaps,’ he added softly, ‘you might take it over there, old chap.’

He pointed at the end of the bar and the drunk's head followed the finger.

The confidence of the Wing Commander's voice from decades of giving orders swayed the inebriated man's mind. 

‘Right. Yeah. Cheers, mate.’ 

He shuffled away, confused but clutching at his unexpected liquid fortune.

Silence settled for half a second.

I exhaled slowly.

Fenrir receded, but not far.

Montgomery did not immediately remove his hand.

‘Do try,’ the Wing Commander murmured, ‘not to redecorate Wetherspoons. I would greatly appreciate a little... self-control.’

He looked the place over.

‘Although it would be able to tell if a massacre of sorts or not had already happened here.’ Harumph.

I took another slow sip of Bass.

My annoyance had not vanished.

It had simply… been postponed.

And that, somehow, was worse.