Stew, having stepped out of the pool and changed into dry clothes, walks down the stairs and into the kitchen.
He opens the fridge, and reaches for a bottle of hard cider, when suddenly, a familiar black hand clashes with his.
Stew looks to the left. Right there was an African-American man who stood at about his height, and had an eyepatch that most likely covered up a nasty injury.
The two stared into each others eyes (or eye, in Demo's case), sneering at each other while placing their hands on the bottle. It was the last one in the fridge.
Which meant that they must handle this situation... like men.
...
...which means, Stew looks at Demo and politely hands the scrumpy to him.
"You can have it, I... really shouldn't."
"Ah, thanks laddie. I've been dyin' for one o' these la'ley." Demo downs the bottle.
He opens the fridge, and reaches for a bottle of hard cider, when suddenly, a familiar black hand clashes with his.
Stew looks to the left. Right there was an African-American man who stood at about his height, and had an eyepatch that most likely covered up a nasty injury.
The two stared into each others eyes (or eye, in Demo's case), sneering at each other while placing their hands on the bottle. It was the last one in the fridge.
Which meant that they must handle this situation... like men.
...
...which means, Stew looks at Demo and politely hands the scrumpy to him.
"You can have it, I... really shouldn't."
"Ah, thanks laddie. I've been dyin' for one o' these la'ley." Demo downs the bottle.