"Yeah... about those papers..." Michael looks down at his shirt, gesturing at his shirt in a way that could only mean; 'This is your fault.' before he turns his attention back to the blonde.

"So, Clementine..." He uncermoniously strips down to his undershirt, the white cotton tank top ringed with sweat but thankfully minus the telling signs of "business" gone awry. "Which precinct are you under?" He gently searches for information, curious as to just how much information Sam has slipped her. Sure, she seemed nice enough... but they always do.