"I suppose so," he shrugged, looking at the man, an ever-so faint smile remaining on his face. "If the situation allows it, I'll come, no question about it." His reply was almost as if through gritted teeth—not physically, but even so it felt difficult for him to get the words out. He has never had a single good experience with Christ or churches or masses or whatever the fuck these catcholics are doing now. The answer became clear to him. He has no qualms about roughing up one of THOSE people.

With a fast movement of his hand, he pulled the knife from his coat pocket, holding it up threateningly. Most of the warmth from his expression had gone. "Now, sir," he kept talking. "I'd reccomend you give me whatever you got in that tin." He gestured with his head towards the tin to make sure that they both understood what he was talking about.