"Baka, baka, baka, baka, baka, baka, baka, baka-!"
"Hello?"
"Hey, Artie! Where the fuck you at?" Alfred asked angrily.
"At the pub," Arthur grumbled lowly.
"What the heck are you doing there?"
"Drinking obviously, you twit."
"Whatever," Alfred sighed and ran a hand through his hair, "you need to come to work."
"I don't want to go back there. It's like Hell, but with florescent lighting!"
"Artie, listen. If you don't get back here soon Ludwig is gonna kill me!"
"I don't give a fuck what that potato-masher does to you!" The Brit yelled.
"Sir, you're going to have to quiet down or we're going to have to throw you out," A voice from the other end warned steadily.
"Artie? Are you okay?"
"I ain't doing squat for a bunch of little soda jerks! Eh, get off of me!" Arthur shrieked at the voice.
There was a whole lot of banging, rattling, and "shits" until the line went dead.
Alfred groaned, "I'm coming for you, Artie."