Booker slowly looked up at the guy who just came to his table. “Good… Evening.” He paused as he took a good look at the unusual man’s mask. He masked politeness under a haze of confusion and contempt. He would have given Crow more of a benefit of the doubt, but the stress that he’d been under lately clouded his ability to evaluate people. “Anyone that regularly wears mask like that is bound to have issues.” Should push come to shove, though, he always had his switchblade in his pocket, and God knows he wasn’t afraid to use it.
He looked sheepishly at the photographs, confounded at what he was looking at and unsure where they came from. Was this supposed to be a sick joke, or even some sort of weird initiation into a job at the hotel? He was repulsed by the images, but he couldn’t really look away. He eloquently asked his strange companion for an explanation. “Pardon my French, but what the Hell is this shit? And if you don’t mind me asking, who the Hell are you?”