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.
Oh…this wasn’t looking too pretty for the guy with the nineteen-seventy-two Jeep Commando. Dennis shakes the bottle of permanent spray paint; shit cost him almost twenty bucks, so it should be worth every last cent. Otherwise, the manager of Home Depot better prepare for the never-ending hurricane of his fury, that would REIGN down upon that pathetic establishment && all its employees.
‘That’s what you get for taking MY spot. Asshole.’ He says with a chuckle, leaning his head back to admire his masterpiece. I FUCKED YOUR MOM it reads, across the body of the truck, in girly cursive.
OH, THIS FUCKER COULDN’T BE SERIOUS. This stranger was about halfway through his handiwork when he exited the liquor store, booze and cigarettes in hand. He purses his lips for the moment ( he would put on this performance of keeping cool, at least for the moment ), feeling all patience with the world leak out like water between PARTED fingers. Calmly, he puts his fresh box of cigarettes in the pocket of his leather jacket, setting his bottle of jack on the sidewalk ( he will retrieve it later ) before CALMLY walking over, and without giving much time for Dennis much time to even REGISTER that someone was standing near him, slams him directly in the jaw with a tight fist. ❝Yeah? Wanna tell me more about how you fucked my ma’, you little punk?❞
