[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/No63pEQ.png[/img][/center]
[code]Regal Square, Prince Ed-Field[/code]
[center][sub][@Mr Allen J] [@Spoopy Scary][/sub][/center][hr]

If Jackson Drake could sum up the previous moments in just one phrase, it would be “shit is fucked”.

He had tried to take down Mister Roughian himself with a simple, yet effective, cartwheel-transitioned, reverse dropkick to the mid-section. He had done it plenty of times before, all of which had laid out the receiving party of one of his kicks. Had he been able to land it, Jackson had no doubt that the upper hand would’ve gone to him. However, as the events would gradually start to unfold in front of Jackson, he would feel his feet missing their target altogether, and crash into the refreshments table. Jackson body fell face-first through the various dishes and platters that were spread throughout the table. His weight broke the table in two, and in a matter of seconds, the food — the messy, glorious food — fell on top of him, painting his fleshy canvas with their many, many colors. When Jackson would find himself standing, he was covered in almost a dozen different entrees and desserts(and other items of cuisine).

The time it took for him to stand had been just about the same amount of time that it took the receiver of his rage to make an escape, for Jackson couldn’t see anything but a gray smokescreen. As he inhaled some of it, Jackson coughed rather embarrassingly. Little did he know, some of the frosting from the cake had also gone up his nose, so he found himself struggling to get it out. After a few good hacks, he was able to get the buttercream frosting out of his nose. Thankfully, it hadn’t gone up too far. Though, now Jackson had to try to make his own escape. One, he didn’t want to face the wrath of that intimidating voice from right before he ruined anyone else’s chances of getting food from that particular refreshments table. However, as Jackson would find out, that wouldn’t be as easy as he thought.

“[color=crimson]What the—[/color]” Jackson thought maybe he was having a delayed reaction to banging into the table. He thought that maybe he might’ve sprained something, but that wasn’t it. If he had sprained a body part, he’d still be able to move; however, it felt like his entire body was being forced frozen still. As much as he wanted to move. As much as Jackson had the will to ditch this rally, something was keeping him where he stood. It was as if…

And then Jackson heard it - a voice speaking rather calmly in his head. It was a female’s voice. She told him not to move, citing that he might strain something. Immediately, Jackson wanted to know a few things. The most obvious would be who was this woman that was speaking into his mind? And how was she keeping him from walking away? 

Jackson didn’t know where to begin as far as figuring this out was concerned. Quite frankly, he just wanted to leave. Seeing as how he couldn’t, the always-stubborn Jackson would do an uncharacteristic thing, and submit to whatever the fuck this was. 

“[color=crimson]Fine, fine,[/color]” Jackson sighed, exhaling an exaggerated breath. 

When the smoke had finally cleared, Jackson’s eyes looked over to the left of him. He saw a few others, namely the piece of shit that got him into this mess in the first place. “[color=crimson]This is your fault Escobar![/color]” Jackson willed himself to speak as loud as he could. Apparently it was harder than he initially thought.