[b][color=a187be]Shinjiro Karasawa[/color][/b]

[color=a187be]"Oh look, now you scared her even worse than I did—"[/color]

Before Karasawa and the Beatnik could have reached a proper compromise, it had been proven to be as inevitable an impossibility as their respective hometowns acknowledging the worth of the others' pizza. Their snagged shot-taker had scurried speedily streetbound since their shouting had sufficiently sidetracked them, leaving the louts at a loss, looking laughably like losers.

This bit sucks.

However, what sucked worse was the immediate aftermath of the event, in which, before Karasawa had time to round on Beatnik or anyone else, boxer boy's phone had, for lack of a better term blown right fuck up in their faces.

All of their faces.

[i][color=a187be]"ジイザス・クライスト！"[/color][/i]

Ass hit grass, and the purple-haired esper's vision became stars. What the hell? A bomb?

His head was swimming. It would be a few minutes, even with how worryingly experienced he was at having his bell rung, to be back at full speed, but there was one thing that was already taking root.

[color=a187be][i]You gotta be bustin' my balls, mother[b]fucker[/b].[/i][/color]

Gradually, one could feel the temperature began to rise.