"Sam, heel."

The order was firm and clear, there was no mistaking what was required, nor was there any hint that Rossi was not in control of the situation. He loomed over the wretch at his feet, muttering over a broken nose. Like we didn't have enough problems, now there was this stupid asshole whining about his delicate face being reworked. 

"You don't know who the fuck you're messing with, pal!"

The threat fell flat, the man wasn't in any position to intimidate a school child, let alone a Beatnik.

Long shadows cast across the concrete floors, now dabbed with a blood/phlegm combination. There might also have been a tooth. Out front by the large shipping doors, a couple of the newly appointed button men of the operation stood watch, confident in the arrangement unfolding inside. It was poorly lit, neglected and abandoned, so it wasn't quite clear why this piece of trash was clinging to the place like his mommy's dress frills. 

Rossi took in the smell, it was all too familiar to him, having worked the Steel production line under Tycho for a while now. Business was good, so good that it was time to scout out other territory and continue cleaning up LA. One day there would be the need for expansion, and what better way than to consume the industry and own the entire trade.

"Why don't you fuck off back to Pasadena, eh? You've got no fuckin' business here!"

One thing you can't put against the Irish, they knew how to curse. A bark suddenly shook the wretch once more, and he scrambled back on the balls of his hands. Sam shot forward again, protective and loyal. Sam was a German Sheppard, and that was intimidating. This cretin wasn't afraid of being punched in the face, heck, he probably made sport of it, but there was something about teeth that made him sweat like a priest. 

Sam crept closer, snarling teeth glistened in the dim light, raising their profile only further. The powerful stance spoke volumes of how it would take only a single word for bark to become bite. 

"Call off that fuckin' mutt! He'll have my throat!!"

"Sam, heel."

Rossi calmly controlled the situation once more, stepping in front of his faithful friend and leaning in close to Mc-whatever his name was. He saw the fright in his eyes and heard the whimper of his breath. He smelt the blood, fresh and thick, now gushing from his face and as his hand wrapped around throat, he felt the fearful perspiration.

"One day we're going to need a Foundry, and I like this one. When that day comes, I don't want to hear hide nor hair of you or your feckin' friends."

He mocked the accent and turned on his heel, looking back only briefly.

"Oh, and it's a bitch. Samantha, come."