Regular 9 to 5 job? Na, Na. We're Black Sheep, us.

Colt was in an Annoyingly. Good. Mood. But if it helped him work, he'd not fuss. So, Nairn sat on the ground, twirling a knife. This job was already taking longer than he cared for, but if the safe was as full as they'd been told, it'd make up for the multiple trips.

But after a while, the tune began to really annoy him, and he snapped, Colton! Stop singing, don't want your fuckin' contagious good mood. He'd been in a sour mood, and it had yet to fade away. No doubt because he wasn't sleeping in his own bed, but down in the dorms on a single, hard as rock piece of shit.

He really needed to buy the dorms better mattresses.