Now that they're not comparing dick measurements, Alex heaves a little sigh, adjusting the sack containing his paltry earners for the night slung over his shoulder. It's little more than a repurposed pillowcase, but like hell he'll be dragging around some kind of toy pumpkin - oh no, jack-o-melon, got to get the terminology right - like a kid. He's not a kid. He's just...a mess.

Yeah, sounds about right.

"Not sure I get to stick around," he says, as drolly as he can. "I'm a better sport solo, anyway."

And Max looks...distressed, to say the least. His presence probably isn't helping any.