“Everyone at work said there’s nowhere to get good fruit downtown,” I told Henry in a sneering voice.
“Everyone? Everyone who?” Henry smirked.
“The whole department*! They all said ‘tell Henry to go fuck himself!’ So go fuck yourself,” I said, patting him on the stomach.
“Do I have to prove all you fuckers wrong?” he said, beginning to get all up in arms.
“Even Barb said so, and she’s well-versed in Things That Are Downtown,” I said, but Henry had already enlisted his phone to solve the problem.
“Rosebud!” Henry shouted, the glow of his cellphone screen spotlighting his tired, yet smug, face. “It’s on the corner of [streets I don’t know]!” He gloated about this for a few more seconds before mumbling, “Oh. Never mind. It’s closed.”