:::The tall, muscular man's blistered working class hands reach for his fifth beer, as his quiet mumbling can be heard under his rugged beard:::
Mine mine mine, haul haul haul, just defend...sometimes...pathetic, avoid them, run, defend only, damn sickness, weak sickness it is. :::He realizes he spoke loud enough for the strangers to hear him, started staring into his beer and while the audible mumbling was gone, you could clearly still see his lips moving, silently, yet angrily:::
