001 || Accidental Video
[The video feed cuts in to offer you a view of one (1) tanned, scarred, mafia assassin, face eating lawn. Said face turns toward the camera and red eyes blink open, glaring death, murder, dismemberment, mass genocide and likely nuclear strike somewhere in there as well, which is all kind of ruined the next second when he spits out a couple blades of grass. ]
What... the shit. [ His eyes fall on the palm pilot and if looks could short circuit this feed would be toast by now. He slaps a hand over it, giving a deafening clap and drags the thing closer, like a cat having just caught a squealing mouse. ]
Listen, you devolved... neanderthal... trash. [ Because the world revolves around Xanxus, he figures this list of contacts displayed on the screen must be his employees. ] I don't know where you shitheads went or what kind of acid trip you're on to think you can run off on your own like it's some fucking family outing. Get your lazy, overpaid asses back here, you bottom-feeding filth, and I'll consider not ripping out each one of your spines in turn and weaving myself a goddamn hammock out of them.
[He seems like he's about to end the feed when something shiny and red plunks down in front of him. He gives the offending object a simmering glare, then looks up.
Apple trees. Lots of them.
An orchard, you might even venture to say.
And then there's a low groan, practically a growl. Fuck his life. ]
If I got grass stains you're all fucking fired.
What... the shit. [ His eyes fall on the palm pilot and if looks could short circuit this feed would be toast by now. He slaps a hand over it, giving a deafening clap and drags the thing closer, like a cat having just caught a squealing mouse. ]
Listen, you devolved... neanderthal... trash. [ Because the world revolves around Xanxus, he figures this list of contacts displayed on the screen must be his employees. ] I don't know where you shitheads went or what kind of acid trip you're on to think you can run off on your own like it's some fucking family outing. Get your lazy, overpaid asses back here, you bottom-feeding filth, and I'll consider not ripping out each one of your spines in turn and weaving myself a goddamn hammock out of them.
[He seems like he's about to end the feed when something shiny and red plunks down in front of him. He gives the offending object a simmering glare, then looks up.
Apple trees. Lots of them.
An orchard, you might even venture to say.
And then there's a low groan, practically a growl. Fuck his life. ]
If I got grass stains you're all fucking fired.