There's really nothing this lad is saying that makes him terribly angry. The border to annoyed is a few miles back, but there's a long stretch before blind rage.

Mostly, he kind of just wants to shut this popsicle stick up for a while. How long had it taken when they drowned that bloke in a bucket? Fifteen minutes? That was the time to beat, and a lad as full of air as this one might be too buoyant from the start.

It's not the best way to kill a person, but he supposes he could cut him into pieces. That's usually more for body disposal. Anyway, it worked pretty fucking well on the last unkillable cunt. Butcher's not sure he wants to commit to killing him forever. Since he doesn't know how his powers work and he clearly has hang-ups about being murdered at all, it seems murder is - unfortunately - out of the question.

Billy rejoins the conversation in time to be informed that dead people shit themselves. This fuck wasn't kidding when he said he's new to the whole death thing.

"Shittin' yourself's least of your problems," Butcher estimates, given he's seen a whole fucking lot of death. "I'd get used to it if I were you. Bag'a hot air like you, won't be long 'til talk yourself into a new pantload. And they ain't gonna ask first."

From his takeout bag, he produces a cigarette and lights it. "Best'a luck to ya." He heads toward the High Gate door and shouts back, "bodega on the corner sells nappies. Adult small aught to do it!"