After the incident with Cartman and his ex-girlfriend's two-piece bathing suit, Ray had thought there was nothing left on the earth that could frighten and disturb him that much.
Well, apparently the island heard him think it, and saw fit to throw in Brad Colbert with a fucking blood-and-sand art project spreading from a wound on his chest. Clearly, the island is like all those Iraqi jihadists they had to deal with the further in-country they got--a lot better at putting up a fight than he'd previously assumed.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Iceman," he yells, running over to lend the guy a shoulder to lean on--if not for the gaping chest wound, he might have taken the time to examine all the ways in which this Is Not Brad, but, come on: gaping chest wound. "Did you fall on your fucking decorative sword, homes?"
"The sword in question was not decorative," Niko replied, only mildly amused by the cursing. Cal had a mouth like a sailor, after all, and none of the skill, so foul words hardly registered.
Calm as Brad might be in this guy's condition, Brad still wouldn't deign to engage a statement like that. Not from Ray Person, even on a day when he was feeling particularly generous.
Brow arching in a way it probably should more for the wound than the guy's response, the realization that this isn't Brad eases Ray's mind, but doesn't stop him from pulling the guy's arm around his shoulders to help him walk in a straight line. "Sorry man, you look like a friend of mine. Minus a pint of blood, but lucky for you, this desert island has real doctors instead of Gilligan's Island scientists with coconut radios."
"Not overly fond of doctors," Niko managed, loathe to actually admit he appreciated the man's help. He'd lost a good deal of blood and with the heat, he was getting faint and fast. He'd never fainted before and he didn't intend to start now; if Cal or Goodfellow ever got wind of it he'd never hear the end.
"I guess I probably should put those particular reservations aside in light of my new, invasive body art, right?"
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Well, apparently the island heard him think it, and saw fit to throw in Brad Colbert with a fucking blood-and-sand art project spreading from a wound on his chest. Clearly, the island is like all those Iraqi jihadists they had to deal with the further in-country they got--a lot better at putting up a fight than he'd previously assumed.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Iceman," he yells, running over to lend the guy a shoulder to lean on--if not for the gaping chest wound, he might have taken the time to examine all the ways in which this Is Not Brad, but, come on: gaping chest wound. "Did you fall on your fucking decorative sword, homes?"
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"It was quite real, I assure you."
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Brow arching in a way it probably should more for the wound than the guy's response, the realization that this isn't Brad eases Ray's mind, but doesn't stop him from pulling the guy's arm around his shoulders to help him walk in a straight line. "Sorry man, you look like a friend of mine. Minus a pint of blood, but lucky for you, this desert island has real doctors instead of Gilligan's Island scientists with coconut radios."
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"I guess I probably should put those particular reservations aside in light of my new, invasive body art, right?"
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