~1980~
Scotty Tremont concentrated on the reddened flesh of his wrist where the handcuffs had bitten into his skin. He knew that he should be working on his game face and showing that he wasn't one to fuck with. But the truth of the matter is that he hoped someone would try. He hoped that someone would look at him and just see a white guy with longish, blondish hair and eyes that were a light shade of grey-blue. He hoped someone would make the mistake of trying to flex because Scotty knew this is how jail worked. And then he could smash his fist into someone's face and hear the satisfying crunch of bone giving away beneath his blows. Right now he wanted nothing more than to punch and scream and … He blinked and focused on his wrists. Best to think about his exit strategy.