[center]

[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=900AzBnnhjU][i]"Step away from 'de doors, they, are my destination."[/i][/url]

A cold, accented tone breaks from beneath a groomed mustache, sodden as darkened clouds swirl overhead. A pronged mask of the mightiest luchas envelopes their wearer's deep eyes in darkness. Every stamp of the boot upon the soused cobbled road closed the distance between he and the bowler-hatted young man, whose lanky arms jangled, buried within the pockets of his slacks.

The shorter of the two men simply stared with an expression devoid of any tremblings, as he chewed audibly upon the long finished stick of a pop. Those blue eyes of his nearly dull to a grey as rain patters forth, a contemplative gesture before they burst once more into their brilliant and shining bravado.

[i]"Ya wannabe heroes're all tha same! Confident eegits, confident in their own eegiocy! Hah. . .!"[/i]

He breaks out into laughter, using that irritatingly arrogant tone of voice all the while. Seemingly unfazed after gleaning his own sibling's trunk of an arm being utterly blown off in a single fell strike. 

[i]"Just ya try sumthin' bigun, see where it gets ye! Ehehehe."[/i]

The jumper-clad man adds in a particular fit of infuriating, suddenly after becoming privy to the massive hand affixed atop his stout bowler. From which he beams a sharp glance upward at the giant of a luchadore, tensity pulsating at the share of eyes paired in anger, and those in a certain somberness.

[i]"Please, I have-a-business within 'de walls, do not wish to ask aga-- W-What. . .?!"[/i]

It was in that very moment, in which those somber brown eyes adjusted, swinging around wildly. As Michelangelo found himself, his great hand in possession only of a small and round black hat. Without even a blink, the wearer had vanished. And it was within that very same moment, the well-muscled man had felt a blunt force jamming straight into his spine, forcing a struggled gasp to escape, and forward stagger, to which he swung around in surprise.

Surprise, for the was nothing abaft, where he had turned. And yet, in that sliver of time another grating pain erupted upon the inside of his right knee, shocking him to a stumbled kneel. Again did 'Angelo search for his ghosted opponent, perhaps even errant questioning his own sanity in the very same moment. The only memento to tell of the irate man's previous existence had been the hat loose in his grasp. But that too vanished in the subsequent second.

In the next, flesh connected to more flesh, as a solid impact burst forth from nothingness against the luchadore's thick jaw, spurting crimson from parted lips. Recoiling, 'Angelo attempted to draw himself from wet grounds, only to at last see the man again. Now twirling that bowler hat upon a finger, as his fiery-hair fell loose, soaking in the downpour.

[i]"Ferghus McNail, nonaya gonna be heroes tah-day." [/i]

[/center]