7th beats Franky

Hale laughed and pounded his fist on the table. “Now THAT was a good joke. I tell ya, I don’t plan on dyin’. If death ever came for me, I’d punch it. Hard!”

“That’s the way it should be,” Franky said after pouring a cola into his curry. “If you’re going down, go down swinging. Make it such a pain in the butt that the reaper won’t even think of coming for ya!”

The two instinctively reached over the table and clasped hands. Such was the language of the strong, or so Bradley had heard from a certain Strong Arm Alchemist. That was, until he noticed the slight shaking and vibrating of Franky’s shoulder. Franky grit his teeth while his free hand dug into the table.

Hale seemed to notice too. “... Ah! You’re tryna have a go, aren’t ya? Alright, let’s do it.”

He lowered his elbow to the table, as did Franky. Now it was official, now they had a match. And an instant later, when Franky had been flung across the room, the match was decided.

Everyone at the table turned to look at Hale as he claimed Franky’s curry as his prize. “What?”