[ Lalo hates this feeling. It's the worst. He felt it with Louis, and he's feeling it again now. The fear. That squirming-inside, helpless fear. It infuriates him. It's not death he fears, but the sense that something even worse than death could happen at any moment.
If he weren't in such bad shape, Lalo would have little fear from an expressionless hobo with a Napoleon complex. But he's in terrible shape. He's injured, and sick from the infection. He's tired. He's in pain. If someone were to attack him now, in this state, he could to little to fight back.
It makes him feel like--
Well, like people usually feel when he looks at them. He remembers leaning over the poker table, elbows jutting out, watching Domingo's sweating, squirming nervousness as Lalo eyed him down. He wishes he could do that to this piece of shit now.
Instead, Lalo wonders if this is how that Domingo kid felt, sitting across the table from him, and feels angry on the inside that he should ever be forced to relate to such a boring nobody. But it has to be similar. The uncertainty. Feeling like both blatant disrespect and further submission are equally likely to provoke merciless verbal mockery at best, outright physical violence at worst.
Lalo swallows, and lowers his eyes, and says nothing. On the inside, he fumes, and thinks about how he'd like to bash Rorschach's head in with something. It's not fair, Lalo thinks, that these mini-humiliations be so successive and constant. What does the universe have against him? What did he do to deserve any of this besides be handsome and cool and sexy and live life on his own terms?
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If he weren't in such bad shape, Lalo would have little fear from an expressionless hobo with a Napoleon complex. But he's in terrible shape. He's injured, and sick from the infection. He's tired. He's in pain. If someone were to attack him now, in this state, he could to little to fight back.
It makes him feel like--
Well, like people usually feel when he looks at them. He remembers leaning over the poker table, elbows jutting out, watching Domingo's sweating, squirming nervousness as Lalo eyed him down. He wishes he could do that to this piece of shit now.
Instead, Lalo wonders if this is how that Domingo kid felt, sitting across the table from him, and feels angry on the inside that he should ever be forced to relate to such a boring nobody. But it has to be similar. The uncertainty. Feeling like both blatant disrespect and further submission are equally likely to provoke merciless verbal mockery at best, outright physical violence at worst.
Lalo swallows, and lowers his eyes, and says nothing. On the inside, he fumes, and thinks about how he'd like to bash Rorschach's head in with something. It's not fair, Lalo thinks, that these mini-humiliations be so successive and constant. What does the universe have against him? What did he do to deserve any of this besides be handsome and cool and sexy and live life on his own terms?
It's so unfair. ]