THIS FUCK

    _{Dennis screeches with the ferocity of a little girl sporting a scraped knee. Falling back onto the asphalt with a painful thud, the can of paint follows, rolling underneath the truck. Well, he sure as HELL wasn’t getting that back.} 

    _{‘ Goddammit NOT THE FACE! WHY THE FACE!’ Dennis shouts, bottom lip quivering as he cradles the underside of his jaw, his nerves fizzling like offset wires. Shit, THIS HURT. ‘ You’re a sick, sick, fuck. SICK! ’ He scrambles to his feet, && while a WISE man would have taken this as the cue to drive off, Reynolds stops short at the trunk of the Rover, flipping the hood up as he rummages through a varied collection of ropes, zip ties, rubber gloves, && camera equipment. Aha! There it was! Dennis pulls the rusty, old, crowbar free from underneath a canvas camera bag, smirking to himself.}

    _{‘ Two can play at this game, champ!’ He says, tapping his weapon of choice against his palm with a wide grin,}

    _{❝Oh, we’re doing} THIS _{now?❞ Robert hides his surprise, expression darkening something fierce. This was no longer a game, this random dude made it clear. If he wants to get killed, he sure as} FUCK _{will get killed. He takes a step back, he just needs a PLAN. ❝Alright, whoa, whoa, American psycho. If we’re gonna} FIGHT, _{we need some ground rules buddy, y’hear?❞ of course, Robert knew this dude wouldn’t listen to REASON} ( if there was even any reasoning to begin with ), _{but he just needed… A second.
    Whipping open his jacket, he grabs a handle, before whipping out a long, angled blade.} 

    _{How he comfortably fit that in his jacket remains a mystery.}

    _{❝Listen, Bateman. I’m not here to fuck around.❞}