Theodore (Ted) Satchel

[There's no warning. No frown, no scrunched brows, not even the attempt to hold it back. Namur lunges forward, throwing his fist across the table, aimed squarely at Ted's jaw. The table, like the rest of the apartment, is not very big, and Namur has long arms.]

Know what, asshole? How 'bout y' don't talk 'bout somethin' y' don't know nothin' 'bout? Slavery's shit! An' I'mma wreck every damn bastard thinks otherwise!