One of the footballers shakes his head, snorting dismissively and looking back down at his coffee while chuckling quietly.

"Yeah, about that. The stuff you 'take on?' If it weren't for you guys, none of us would have to deal with it in the first place! Uh, I don't think I'm alone in saying this? But I'd prefer none of it happening to start with to you 'dealing' with it and doing a shit-tastic job."

The sopping head of the mob gets smushed into the most vocal jock's chest by a stone-faced L. "Out," he says curtly. "Outside, now. You're not talking like that in my coffee shop."

"And none of you Numbered fucks scare me."