Waiting for Pirate Man

[Gamzee Makara]

Melx roars through the pain, turning the propulsion from the accidental explosion into a spinning somersault of death. Not an acrobatic pirouette, no, but a somersault of death. He swings on his heavy buster sword as if it was a fixed object, cleaving through the air as if it was...air.

Gamzee, for all his worth, is still planted on his ass, trying in vain to crack open the bottle of Jazzberry Blue he so desperately desires. It is this roar that brings to his attention the current predicament he finds himself in. Looking up from the exercise in futility that is releasing the blasted blessed miracles, the clown takes a few frozen moments to assess his situation.

Caught with his proverbial pants down? Check.

Big Ass Sword headed for a one way trip to his neck? Check.

Pissed off Bomber-Maniac? Check.

Nnnnnope. Not much else to say. Nope nope nope nope nope nope nope.

With a barrage of swears and curses, Gamzee tumble-rolls with gusto. Tuck and roll, tuck and roll! Scrambling to his feet, the troll tries not to flinch as that big biznasty sword clangs into the blank ground he was occupying not seconds ago. This is accompanied by a fizzy, carbonated *SPLORTCH* noise as the abandoned bottle of Faygo is left for dead. The clown prince of idiocy, with his back turned, makes himself and easy and present target. Melx, with a bomb for every occasion, jams his free hand into his trench coat pocket, fingers clasping around a metal ball contraption doo-hickey. With a grunt, he pitches a fastball aimed right between his fool foe’s shoulder blades.

*thwack*

It sticks to the alien’s shirt with some unknown adhesive. “Ow! That hurt like a motherf-”

*beep*

*beep*

*beepbeepbeepbeep*

Gamzee really doesn’t understand what happens within the span of these few short seconds, but he really, really doesn’t like it. Probably because of all these little annoying things: the sticky stuff, the blinking metal ball, the way his back was turned like an idiot. It all boils down to one thing; an exploding juggalo. Or rather, an exploding Gamzee. Again. Man, he really is tired of people exploding him.

The blast sends him motherfuckin’ flying. He pitches forward face first into the ground, skidding and flip flopping quite a good ways before finally coming to a rest, belly up. Smoke lingers and wisps off his body. His chest rises and falls slowly but steadily. The clown’s eyes flutter open peacefully, as he tries to dash away the burning sensation behind his eyelids. Mother of Mirth did it feel like there was a new hole in his back. It was all kinds of uncomfortable.The unknown source of light illuminating the Nexus makes it hard for the fool to really look into the nonexistent sky.

Not that he really wanted to look at it. He has an ass-kicking to hand out, in the name of his Mistress Guu. The Miracles of the Nexus can wait.

Shakily, Mister Makara rises to his feet, purple canvas shoes now pleasantly scuffed. He turns to face his aggressor, one Officer Melx. What an annoying downer this guy is going to be. S'aight. Ups and downsomes come and go, or something metaphorical like that. With a strangely uncharacteristically steely (and lots of other -ly words) determination, along with a very characteristically cheeky smirk, the High-Blood tightens his grip on the Deuce of Clubs. He cracks out the crick in his neck to the left, and then once to the right. The sickening sound of clacking and grinding bone joints brings an odd, twisted aspect to the lopsided smile.

Melx is ominously stomping towards the idiot, tossing another sticky bomball up into the air, only to let it fall down casually back into his hand.

Mirth be praised, Gamzee is going enjoy clobbering this son of a bitch.