[color=ed1c24][i]"God-damn fucking shit-smeared holy mother of FUCK that hurt."[/i][/color] Grog screamed at himself, as he fell on his now bony ass, the last of his fireworks sputtering, while the speakers were finally losing power, and turning to dust. Hey, wouldya lookit that. He even got a guard with his babies. He hadn't actually expected to hit anyone with them, just make a show. Sure, the fireworks were spruced up to the point of being weaponry, but hell, he still used them like fireworks. Mentally patting himself on the back, he thought about his options. They were rather limited.

 It was a pretty hilarious sight, in all honesty. Him laying there, pants down to his knees, jacket pushed up to his chest, and a blackened, smoking pelvic bone where his precious jumblies once stood. His mind was working on overdrive, thinking faster than most men would ever think, trying to finally come up with a solution.

 "Power pint! Gimmie some beer."

 Yep, that was the stuff. Grog was once more relaxed. Sure, the pain was searing, but it could've been worse. Most of his nerve endings were probably singed anyways. Dangling the pint a breath above his head, and smelling his damp, liquor-soaked mask, he awaited for the inevitable outcome of this whole operation, be it positive or negative. Truth be told, he couldn't really care either way.

 Then, out of nowhere, an idea struck him in the head like a sledgehammer.

 "Hey Pint, give me your most balls-to-the-wall absynthe. And a whole -lot- of it."

 A sinister grin creeped into Grog's face as he retrieved his lighter.