[There's the taste of copper blood, sweat, and smoke, and his veins are burning with the fuel of caffiene, nicotine, and war. His ciggarette is almost bent by his gritted, painfully smiling mouth, ears ringing with the roar of explosions and screaming, the dull jingling of his rusted rings and bracelets, the perpetually locked chain around his throat.
Naito Longchamp is 29 years old, with more peircings and tattoos than ever. The blood on his unlaced boots is the color of his hair, and the dried splatters across his duct taped shirt and safety pinned jacket highlights the mad, high look in his green eyes.
He is 29 years old, and in his hands are a long switchblade and a grime coat, sawed off Uzi.
He's ordered the Tomaso campsite to hook up their stereo systems, and blast the harsh rasp of British punk as loud as it can, to sound as the theme for his ass kicking of every single Millefiore he has in his sights.
It draws them in, gives their position away, but fuck that- what's the use of living if it's not soundtracked to rock n roll?
Except now, in the nexus, all is silent. He doesn't miss a beat, and fires his Uzi off into the air, standing his ground.]
OI, what's this shit, some Millefiore illusion?! Piss off and come on out fuckheads, and I'll show you bitches what the Tomaso are made of! BLOODY FUCKING PEACE, GAHAHAHAHAAA!!!
Naito Longchamp is 29 years old, with more peircings and tattoos than ever. The blood on his unlaced boots is the color of his hair, and the dried splatters across his duct taped shirt and safety pinned jacket highlights the mad, high look in his green eyes.
He is 29 years old, and in his hands are a long switchblade and a grime coat, sawed off Uzi.
He's ordered the Tomaso campsite to hook up their stereo systems, and blast the harsh rasp of British punk as loud as it can, to sound as the theme for his ass kicking of every single Millefiore he has in his sights.
It draws them in, gives their position away, but fuck that- what's the use of living if it's not soundtracked to rock n roll?
Except now, in the nexus, all is silent. He doesn't miss a beat, and fires his Uzi off into the air, standing his ground.]
OI, what's this shit, some Millefiore illusion?! Piss off and come on out fuckheads, and I'll show you bitches what the Tomaso are made of! BLOODY FUCKING PEACE, GAHAHAHAHAAA!!!
Current Mood: hyper
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