Rain pounded against the top of the car. Rosco and Bozolli sat inside.
I dont know about this shit anymore, man, Bozolli said. Shits too tame. We gotta step it up, ya know?
You, fuckin step it up? Rosco asked. Fuckin death of you, man. You aint getting paid to fuckin lap your plate however you choose. Cmon, we got work to do.
The two men stepped out of the car into the downfall. They wore tattered overcoats. Rosco had on a brimmed hat. Bozolli blew smoke past the strands hanging over his eyes like a dog. His cold, blue eyes held thoughts that a guy like him shouldnt be thinking.
I just dont think were takin shit far as we can.