The Dented Bucket

*

"The damage is done, John."

Munch stood up briefly, fixed Fin with a glare, and then went back to peering at his car. "It's a ding. It's barely a ding."

"I'm gonna ding you if you don't get into the car."

Shaking his head, Munch leaned against the grille of the car. "This sounds very familiar to me. Have we had this argument before?"

"Don't see why not; we've had every other argument before." Fin attempted to push Munch away from the car, but the other man wasn't budging. "For a skinny-ass bastard, you sure are solid when you wanna be," he grumbled.

"I learned stubborn from the best in the business." A sly half-smile curled the corners of Munch's lips.

"You callin' me stubborn, John?"

Munch shrugged. "If the shoe fits."

Fin intensified his glare. "The shoe's about to fit up your ass."

Munch shook his head. "How do you do that?"

By the passenger side door, Fin paused. "Do what?"

"There you stand, threatening me with great bodily harm, and yet you make it sound like you're really offering to bend me over the hood of the car and fuck me seven ways from Sunday."

Fin waggled his eyebrows. "A gift, I guess." He opened the door and looked expectantly at John. "You drivin' this dented bucket home, or you pushin' it?"

Munch pushed away from the car but made no move towards the drivers' side. "I'm still thinking."

Fin's eye narrowed dangerously. "Don't make me come back over there and beat your bony ass."

Munch grinned, a slow, sliding grin that was really more of a leer, and walked around the car. "I'm driving the dented bucket. Keep talking."