“If you’re not at the table, you’re on the menu.”
“Now this is what I call fucking music!” Mickey said, swaying his hips to the beat coming out of the large speakers surrounding them.
“Now, I’m mainly an Elvis man but Money For Nothing by Dire Straits—fuck —you got to move to this shit,” he said, dancing around a large bag on the floor. Every move was carefully choreographed to keep his double measure of whisky safely in his glass. “This song—it’s like our fucking theme tune!”