Jefferson only rubbed at his eyes. "Look, either you pack up your shit and go, or you give me a goddamn good reason why I shouldn't rip those babbling lips from your face and chase you away with your tail between your legs."
"I just wanna lounge, soak up the Great Mother and smoke some rainbow weed," the dark-furred Lykoi smiled hazily. "I'm not a sponge, man, you won't even know I'm here." He paused a moment, touching at his lips, then looked down at his collapsed tent. "You made me drop my joint, man, that was my last one..." The Lykoi paused a moment, looking puzzled, then reached up quietly and pulled his multicolored bandana from his head. Jefferson watched with frowning scars as the coyote searched the fabric, then pulled out a rolled joint from within. Replacing the bandana where it belonged, Razekiel lit the joint and inhaled from it deeply, grin ever-present.
A moment later, he pointed the smoking thing in the cyclops' direction. "Have a puff," the Lykoi smiled, oblivious to the Patriarch's itching nose and glowing eye. "I grow it myself — pure 'n' homemade, man. You and your whole pack can have some."
The cyclops glared. Razekiel withdrew the joint after a moment, shrugging and placing it once more in his mouth.
"You're a Lykoi," the scarred man grumbled, a certain hiss in his tone, "you belong in Inferni, not here."
Razekiel only shrugged. "I was born there, man, and that was my crib up till a couple months ago, but I saw the light, man. Mother Earth doesn't kiss that joint, man, not much. I got lost in a snowstorm earlier this year on my way back, so I never ended up going back. My old lady's probably still there, my sunshine, but it's not my place, man. I gotta walk my own trail, you know?"
"Fine," the cyclops sighed, exasperated, "fine, you can stay here, but stay out of my fucking way and don't be giving any of that ... that 'weed' to any of my members or I'll skin you alive." He mumbled something more to himself, turning on his heel and starting back into the packlands with weighted steps, leaving the idiotic coyote behind.
Or so he wished, because Razekiel jogged on up to him and kept up, babbling more nonsensical nonsense in the Patriarch's tattered ears, clogging the scarred man's nose with the reek of drugs and burning at his one remaining eye with the smoke.
Surely Jefferson would regret this decision.
