<strong>"Not only is it not my beer, it was either left by whoever trashed my place and thus not wise to drink or worse,"</strong>he held the note up.<strong>"It was left by someone who knows me way too well."</strong><br/><br/>He holds the six pack of bottles out by the handle.  It's something called Black Pharaoh Stout and the label sports a stylized Ancient Egyptian funerary bust with an inverted ankh superimposed over it.  He then unfolds and reads the note, and if his expression was a bit scary and intense before, it gets even stormier now.<br/><br/><strong>"Oh, that tears it.  Two steps behind, just like last time."</strong><br/><br/>He tucks the note in his pocket.<br/><br/><strong>"Guess we better crash at your place, if you're willing to put up with me.  I'd offer to sleep on the couch but I already know you don't have one because it's a studio."</strong>