Cocktails and hor d'oeuvres had never really been his style; Kisame would have been uncomfortable and out of place in the expensive boxes even if he'd wanted to sit in them, a fish--shark--out of water in any sense of the words. The chair was uncomfortable and felt like it might give out entirely under his weight, but at least it didn't need to be sat in delicately; he was slumped in it as though he intended to fall asleep then and there, a half-full bottle of beer he'd been nursing for a while tucked between his legs
( ... )
"Books." Kisame echoed, deadpan. Books, as though it weren't obvious. Books, as though it were a perfectly innocent, perfectly normal thing to blog about on a semi-daily basis. Books, as though porn were the only sort of book written, or at least worth reading
( ... )
Sometimes it was. Not everyone was naturally skilled in the art of cutting down another man's life at the root, burying him six feet under the mud that held him
( ... )
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