The million dollar question

She and are talking at a four sided table.
He takes a seat without asking.
"So how have you been?" I ask as I continue to eat lunch. She finishes.
"Good, great, awesome." He says. He got the same greasy garbage that I got. If I wasn't hungry than I'd complain about it.
While eating I had been talking to her and now she got up as he sat down, uninvited, and left.
"Where's she going?" He asks. He's six-foot-three, two hundred something pounds with crooked teeth. He looks like he could rip my arms off. He always speaks in a threatening tone, like you just insulted him.
"Huh, where's she going?" He says when I don't answer quick enough.
"Leaving." I say.
"Where?"
I have no fucking clue and don't care.
"I don't know. Leaving."
"Oh." He says like the situation had just donned on him.
I ask him whats next. Figurtively speaking. What will happen for him in the future. What will he do? It's a good conversation starter, I think.
"Gonna make millions."
"That's a strong statement." I say.
"Really." He says. He stops eating and stares me down. "It's true."
"How?"
"I'm not going to tell you."
"Oh. Why?" I stare at him, wondering if he really could be this dumb.
"Because."
Great answer. I think to myself that I've had a bad day, just like yesterday and the day before. I don't need this. I get aggitated quickly.
"I'll make millions, though," He reiterates.
Next i imagine him asking me how I'll make millions. I wouldn't know where to begin. i just want to eat. Or I imagine he'll switch the topic of conversation because I obviously look pissed with the current topic. I mean that's what any sociable person would do.
Instead he begins his million dollar speach.
"I have a plan. Do you have a plan? No? That sucks. What will you be doing in the future? You don't know? I'm making millions with this plan. You won't be making millions. Don't worry. I'll remember the little people, like you. Hopefully I won't crush you on the way up though. I'll be making millions in a year." He laughs to himself.
- little people, like you -
Should I tell him i'm six-foot-nothing and have made more out of my life so far than he ever will, that he is a nobody and nobody cares for him.
That sonofabitch.
I think about standing up, grabbing my chair and breaking it across his 25 pound face, just to add another dent in it.
"No," I say. "I don't have a plan. Good luck with yours though."
"I don't need any luck. You do."
He'll need luck if he thinks a million dollars would help his face any.
I imagine that he's coughing blood after I throw to the side what's left of the shattered chair I broke across face.
"Well, I'm happy with my life." I say, not meaning it and just trying to get him to shut up.
"Why? What do you have." He says. "I'll be making millions. You?"
Why did he sit down here across from me. I just wanted to eat.
....
I just can't get away from the devil anymore.
....
I think about what would happen next, after breaking the chair across his face. He'd take it, no doubt. He's big. Next he'd run me into the wall. The weight of the impact would break the plaster, my back would brusie immediately, I think, and I'd fall to the ground screaming in pain. Game over? I'd like to think I could win the fight. Maybe with another chair.
I'd like to think that.
"I'll be making millions." He laughs to himself. "You."
I get up. Push my chair back in.
Walk away.