Indignant Illumination

"What the fuck is with that light?" slick folded his arms, his claws tugging at the worn fabric of his jacket. Droog didn't bother answering, merely tugging on his hat and turning the page of the newspaper he was reading. Slick continued to stare with unbridled rage at the store window he was currently surveying. At Droog's lack of an adequate response, slick banged his metal arm a few times against the lamp post that droog was leaning against. "Derse ta' Droog!" he hissed, bearing his sharp teeth. Droog ground his cigarette lightly between his teeth, taking in a deep, agitated breath. His boss had this insufferable habit of acting like a spoiled child. "Excellent alliteration," Droog remarked sarcastically, to which slick replied x2, "admirable."
"Fine. Admirable."
"Atrociously admirable."
"I'm glad you're our leader. Who else could provide such spectacularly bad puns?"
"Fuck you."

The two lapsed into silence. They had been waiting to rendezvous with Deuce and Boxcars for around seven minutes now. The act of rendezvousing was not always as important as it seemed. The Crew tended to overuse the word, liking the way it sounded. On this occasion, however, the rendezvous was an occasion of some importance. The Crew was currently engaged in an admittedly petty, deadly squabble over territory. Was one measly street worth gang-war-carnage far exceeding what was, as considered by all rational beings, really fucking stupid?
Was it pointless?
Yes.
Was it senseless?
Yes.
Was it completely necessary and emotionally rewarding?
Hell.
Fucking.
Yes.

Nonetheless, Droog remained coolly disdainful, and Slick remained grouchier than a badger with a rock in its eye. He even bore a vague resemblance to said description, being short, and having both vicious teeth and an injured eye. Spade Badber-Face gave up on trying to burn a hole through Droog with his amplified ocular anger beam, and turned his attention back to the extraordinarily tacky shop window. "I swear there's somethin' screwey about that light," Slick grumbled, "it's fuckin' blinking." Droog hazarded a look at the offending illumination. "The light" turned out to be a few panels of fluorescent lighting. "They always do that," Droog informed Slick, "they aren't on constantly. It just looks like they're always on, they're blinkin' so fast."
"How da' fuck do you know THAT?"
Droog inhaled deeply again, "I don't know. I remember it from somewhere. Ain't important or anything." Slick's response was a deep-throated growl, accompanied by his usual open-mouthed expression of anger, his tongue showing beneath a fierce scowl. Droog hoped every time he heard that noise that Slick was choking on a chunk of his own trachea.

After another long pause, slick grumbled, "they sure do take their sweet fuckin' time. Those assholes will die of blood loss before the bombs get here." Droog wondered how long Slick could go without saying 'fuck'. He folded his newspaper and took a long drag from his cigarette before extinguishing it. He could presently hear the heavy footsteps of whom he know (although he could not see him) to be Hearts Boxcars. He could not yet hear Clubs Deuce, but he was sure to be nearby. Unless he got lost. Or Boxcars ate him. Droog leaned his head back, looking at slick through the corner of his eye. Slick had clearly heard the others too, his impatient anger replaced with expectant, alert anger. Their companions soon came into view: "The Brawn" and "The Little Guy Whom Nobody Can Believe Hasn't Blown Himself Up Yet". Boxcars was carrying a large barrel full of assorted explosives. Not the most suave approach to anything, but in this case, it would do the trick. As the duo neared, slick wordlessly ran up to Boxcars and grabbed a random bomb from the haphazard collection. He bolted into the store that had been his obsession for the past several minutes. He came sauntering out shortly after, carrying a bag of ill-gotten Scottie Dogs, and followed by an explosion Smirking, he shoved the bag into his hat.

"And away we go."