In London,
where the sirens yelp
like a helpless dog
with its paws stepped on,
and the rain comes down in late July
and the record labels call you "Why?"
And your eyes are slits in bags of fat,
and your eyes are piss holes in the snow.
Right? There's this slimeball with white hair, and this dude who pulled a gun on me, and this girl who can probably throw a car at me, and some dude who looks like the god damn Count of Monte Cristo... It's fucking nuts.
Best to keep your head down, try to avoid everyone unless they need something from you.
*Renard sighs as he sees it rise, throwing himself backwards to the floor, yet giving no signs of resistance.*
Yeah, but that's fucking dumb, you know? I'm not throwing my coke-razor in your eye or something, man.
*He moves a bit freakishly getting back to his feet, sliding himself along the ground as he does it, bending his torso like a slinky before standing, only folding his arms, all the while side-stepping unevenly.*
A fight's a fight because it determines who's the better fighter, not who bought a cooler gun. If you're not gonna take this seriously, then I might as well not bother.
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