"Asshole!" The Hellzooka shouted. "Motherfucker!" It roared across the battlefield. "aaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!" A rocket flew into an already messed up grocery store, followed by another hitting the hair saloon next to it. A massive explosion emitted, and the charred remains of what used to be the innocent bystanders taking refuge on the sidelines of combat started plopping down from the sky like it was fucking fourth of July. Fuchsia was tripping through the street. "La di da di da" he hummed, one foot in front of the other, trippety truppety trappety trop. He jumped into a puddle of blood, both feet at the same time. Splosh. The velvet liquid of life ejaculated itself onto the surrounding walls. He dipped his finger in the puddle, and drew a smiley face on the wall. 

"Let's get out of he-.." A multitude of footsteps. They were getting fainter. A group of soldiers retreating from the fray. "Gaaayyyyy!" The hellzooka burst out, a murder rocket planting itself firmly in the middle of the escaping group before suicide bombing itself to back to the burning pits of hell. Splat. Fuchsia got half a foot in his face, slobs of flesh and bone in his hair. It thumped to the ground. He started counting on his fingers as he knelt, intent on picking it up. "Six thousand, two hundred and eighty six." He mumbled to himself. Math wasn't his strong suit. He had just about started munching on the delicious little meal he had picked, when a voice started echoing through his head. "Skallagrim?" He questioned, and before he knew it, he was no longer in the village he had been defending against the enemy. 

He looked around, his finger itching for the trigger of his Hellzooka, but his mind curious as to what he had bewildered himself into this time. He slurped loudly, as the last of the foot disappeared into his maw. He was now in some kind of castle, in which the most notable presence was a talking skeleton. Huh. Fancy garments.