And just like that, shit began to go down. The head honcho had already broken out his offensive maneuvers, first with stomping on the poor crab-man's arms and by... Throwing a chunk of concrete directly at his face. That was not good, not good at all. Even in this state of heightened awareness, Grog was far too immobile strapped on the Mayan's back to successfully avoid it, and judging from the latter's absolute negligence when it came to teammates, well, he was screwed. Or was he? Seems like 'Prave had actually started to move out of the way. Grog was pleasantly surprised. Leaning to the side, so as to have a grater chance to avoid the piece of rubble, he readied his guns, finally preparing to unleash his long awaited volley at the charging cambion. But alas, that was not meant to come to pass.

 He had dodged, but only partially. Its' edge grazed against Grog's face, snapping his head to the side, and cracking his cheekbone. The opportunity was lost. Yet, as he violently twisted back, he found himself a breath away from the cambion. Deprave, you luchador from hell. You locked the cunt in place. Grog would be excited, if he weren't literally frothing with rage. Foamy saliva was violently escaping visibly clenched jaws, as his mask had been pulled down by the impact, and widened eyes shone from behind his safety goggles. The masked hoodlum remained deathly silent, and for an impossibly brief moment, gave Nefas a glare of drug-fueled insanity. An absolute barrage of well-placed shots followed, primarily aimed at the head.