"'Sup, homies?"
Ujuor walks in off the balcony, gesturing flamboyantly, arms out, needles flying out of his wrist shooters into the necks of Siggs and The Phoenician. The good doctor collapses immediately; the rich man manages to touch his neck before falling backward.
"So, I was thinking: time goes forward as well as backward, so, really, y'know? Can I call you Clem?"
The Owl King retakes his seat at the head of the table.
"Must have been quite a climb."
"You're not that high up, Clem," Ujuor answers, smirking, attentions on the resetting of his needlers.
"No one is in the end," the Owl King replies quietly. "This is a private meeting."
"You're funny as they say, Clem. Like the digs too."
The owl removes a kingly cigarette from his inside coat pocket, sets it to his lip, and lights it off his thumb. A heavy inhalation; the blue smoke fills him.
"The bread, the lamb spread," Ujuor clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth, a distinct tching noise.
The assailant leaps up and runs across the tabletop, a blur of movement.