Zone X -- The Colosseum

[Gamzee Makara]

Ball? Gamzee likes balls! Especially the circus ones, like the ones seals balance on their noses and shit? Hell yeah, balls are the be-

It would soon occur to the intrepid juggalo hero that not all balls were to be played with, no. Seal balls? Sure, have at it, ya sick circus freak. But the one kind of balls that you never ever fuck with, were the balls of a God. You see, when Gamzee Makara turned around to find the ball that his newest lady friend was talking about, he was far more occupied with how pretty and shiny and fuckin' miraculous that such a beautiful ball could even be motherfucking comprehended by his mortal eyes. So, naturally, the High-Blood tries to grab the god's ball.

Sometimes, it is important in storytelling to let the audience come to their own understanding of what happens next.

Gamzee is sent sprawling through the air by the force of the illustrious blast, flip flopping through the dry sands of the coliseum for a few good yards before finally skidding to a stop on his face. It is also worthy to note that in this particular situation, his body was positioned in such a way that his ass stuck high into the air. For a few good moments, he just lay there one the ground, absolutely astounded by how something so captivating and beautiful could also sting like a motherfucker. Motherfuckin' miracles, man. Balls, dude, how do they work? Gamzee's view on balls was certainly now a much more cautious one, wary for traps like the God's ball. He was certain that he would think twice before playing with random balls from now on.

What was sad about this entire situation was that the Troll had yet to show the slightest sign of hostility, which he was actually quite proud of. To him, it usually kinda felt like people were just mad at him for existing. He liked to believe that he had a naturally unflappable friendly demeanor. Hell, he wasn't even sure he knew what the word unflappable meant. He just liked the way it all up and motherfuckin' sounded vibrating off of his lips. I mean shit, he didn't feel like he looked very threatening. Maybe now would be a good time to fix that. Maybe he didn't really have a choice. Maybe it's a Miracle.

After all, not all Miracles are pleasant.

Gamzee pushes himself up from the white sand, spitting out a little glob of the stuff that he had been force fed by gravity. A long purple tongue slowly drags itself across his lips. The clown opens his mouth and for the first time since being teleported here, the other two primes actually pay attention to what he says.

"Man, this shit is kinda chalky," he begins slowly, "makin' my mouth's kinna dry."

"Sure wish you motherfuckers hadn't all up and wasted my Faygo like that," the troll practically spits out, gesturing to the remains of his sugary fruity drink lying in the dirt. The diabetes inducing beverage had been melted by the SARU's ball. The plastic still sizzled and dribbled into a pool of nigh-boiling soda. Something had crept into the very edges of this normally jovial juvenile's voice. Something that neither Chakravartin nor Erika could place, yet at the same time managed to sound familiar to both of them.

"Looks like Imma just have to get to satin' my thirst the old fashioned way."

It was almost primal, subhuman even.

"Y'all motherfuckers wanna help? I'm just itchin' to quench the wicked parched desert that is my gullet."

But there was an intelligence behind these animalistic sounds, something beyond a need just to survive. Some would call it sadistic. Others, masochistic, maybe even hedonistic. Lots of motherfuckin' istics in this bitch. Gamzee don't need such istics to describe a motherfucking feeling, because it ain't a feeling, brother. It's an emotion, an instinct. Gamzee calls this shit fun.

"And what better righteous refreshment than your motherfuckin' blood?"

Silence, after this last question is asked. Gamzee isn't really sure what a rhetoric question is, but if he did know, this would be one of those rhetoric questions. His deuce clubs poof into existence in a shower of rainbow sparkles. The only rhetoric this High-Blood knew was how to beat the shit out of shit. These two peasant-bloods were shit. So now he's gotta beat the shit out of them. It's pretty simple actually, it's like a two-step rehab program, but with more death than usual.

Gamzee laughs a carefree laugh, as if he were a child being let out of school early, before sprinting straight for Erika, who just happened to be more of a bitch than a god, somehow, and was now paying for it dearly.

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literally nothing really happened except that Gamzee is charging blindly and wildly at Dawn for being a meanie. He ain't sober, just kinda serious now.