“How's your scratch, Henri?" I asked.
He snorted and leaned against the dresser. "You mean the shotgun blast in my side? It's wonderful. I have about eighty pellet-size scars to show for it."
"Dude," Dub said, plopping down in one of the chairs, "Who gets shot with their own gun? Embarrassing, if you ask me."
Henri gave Dub's chair a hard shove with his foot. Dub laughed, and Henri rolled his eyes.”