Wrench hates that. Not the attitude; on the contrary, there's something about being treated like the shit on the bottom of the man's shoe that makes him far more willing to comply. It's so familiar that it's almost comforting. He knows the rules of this interaction without needing clarification. There's no question about where he stands, and none of that comes down to who could physically overpower who. The other man has a need and the self-assurance to demand that someone else fulfill it, and Wrench is going to do just that.

What he hates is walking in the front. Wrench never does it if he can help it, and that much shows in the way he stops to shoot periodic glances behind him just to make sure the stranger is keeping up. Wrench might be every bit of 6'4" with enough layers of clothing to build up some fraudulent bulk around the shoulders, but he looks a lot less sure of himself when he's constantly looking behind his back.

He stops alongside a suntan copper Chevy Impala and unlocks the driver's door, then slides in to pop the lock on the other side.