Malcolm Bright

"You got enough money, I'm sure that you can," Raylan said, dropping the bread on the counter to open the fridge door and pull out mayo, a pack of cheap ham and a couple of slices of cheese. After a pause, he dug back in and pulled out a small butter container, covered in foil, peeking inside and deciding it was worth the keeping.

"Big City and all. Get your tamales with a side of Lo Mein and curry, I imagine. Not to say that Kentucky doesn't have some culture and class," he continued, setting about the swift and practiced movements of making his sandwich. The mayo was spread to the crust, slight pains were taken to make sure the cheese didn't go outside those crusts and the ham was almost artfully piled before he laid over a few tomato slices, curtosy of the butter tub. Once everything was put away, Raylan would meander back towards the table in the center of the room, nabbing the salt and pepper.

"Up north, Louisville is almost civilized, compared to the hills here. 5 star restaurants, booming metropolis and all." With the sandwich made and seasoned, Raylan put everything away before cutting it in half. "Normally, I eat breakfast," he finished in way of explanation before picking up one half of the sandwich and leaning against the countertop as he bit into it.

"Don't tell Art."