It isn't not interesting, as far as conversation over drinks goes. Could be worse. If he had no patience and less interest in it, Wrench would surely know — he'd make no illusions otherwise. The fact that he's carrying it on should say enough.

He reclines back in a chair that seems faintly dubious in its job at holding up his mass, creaking beneath him as his shoulders hit the wall behind their table. From that comfortable lean, he studies Wrench's expression, his countenance. Weighing, considering.

At length, he admits:

SPENT THE BETTER PART OF MY LAST YEARS ON THE RUN MYSELF. THAT'S WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU TELL A KING TO FUCK OFF. I WAS ALL BUT DEAD WHEN THOSE WRINKLY OLD CUNTS PULLED ME THROUGH.

In other words, he can relate perhaps better than Wrench might have been expecting.