[He doesn't deign to answer that question, thank you. Instead, he sets his glass down with a quiet tone of two surfaces aligning, contemplating the table with a neutral cast to his expression.]

Did you know that there used to be a market for little boys who could kill birds? They called them "wringers." Their job was simple, really.

They found the birds that hunters shot, who hadn't died of their wounds, and they learned how best to snap their necks.

[He smiles, and, in one split second - makes a very compulsive snap decision. This is what happens when you let his irritation simmer away beneath the surface and refuse to give anything up.]

[He lunges forward and snaps both hands around Jay's scrawny little neck.]