For the moment, at least, Mad Sweeney is sober. Mostly sober. Forty percent sober, for certain, but that's better than he's accomplished since Sunday.

A different Sunday in Kentucky than the one he'd wandered into, all told, but he figures when one has been around for seven hundred years, one can afford to skip a month or two every now and then. It's not like he hasn't gone on binges that lasted longer than that.

But he's sober enough right now to know wandering into a fucking boxing club isn't the best idea he's ever had, but what he'd like right now is for someone to punch him in the fucking face until his teeth feel like they're about to fall out. He gets a fair few looks when he walks inside, probably owing to his height, but he hasn't noticed that in years. What he does notice is the posturing half the men start to engage in, which only makes him laugh and head for the one person who doesn't seem like she gives a shit that he's here.

"Care for a moving target, love?" he asks when he's close enough.