As the syringe was filled, Butch stepped up into the surgeon’s grille. Even as incapacitated as the cop was from the inhaling, he was straight-up deadly as he spoke. I don’t need to tell you not to f*ck my buddy. Right. The surgeon looked around his little-glass-bottle-and-needle routine. I’m not thinking about sex at the moment, thank you very much. But if I was, it sure as shit wouldn’t be with him. So instead of worrying about who I’m tapping, how’d you like to do us all a favor and have a shower. You stink. Butch blinked. Then smiled a little. You have balls. And they’re made of brass. Big as church bells, too.