"If I fall to my death, it'll be preferable to standing here listening to you right now," Newt shoots back. "P.S., you're a dick. No, but hey, we're still getting drinks after this, right? Because that mint actually made me really thirsty, even thirstier than I already was, I'm going to need about eighteen beers just to rid myself of the trauma this experience has brought me."

Once they get out of this, they'll be able to laugh about it. Maybe. Probably. Could take a few months. But still, as bitchy as they're being with each other right now--all of which can be chalked up to pure, uninhibited hunger so Newt isn't even mad--there aren't very many other people he thinks he could stand being stuck in an elevator with without straight up murdering their asses.

"Y'know, you're lucky it was me," Newt says. "There's a guy a few floors up who like, always smells like formaldehyde and B.O. so I think as far as elevator co-inmates go, you hit the jackpot."