[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/oJbW92K.png[/img][/center]
[center][h3][color=#FA8072]Yamggressive Diplo-Marty[/color][/h3][/center]
[right][sup][b][color=#FA8072]Location:[/color][/b] [i][color=silver]The Paradise[/color][/i] [b][color=#FA8072]Interaction(s):[/color][/b] [i][@Mcmolly][/i][/sup][/right][hr]

[Color=silver]The negotiations fell through quickly, through no fault of Marty's, it's necessary to add. Yam really hung him out to dry! Nobody can expertly pull off being a good-bad cop one fly act, least ways not well enough to win over the future-tense ground beef charging at the pair of them. His sensory hairs tasted the fear and pumping adrenaline that clung to each of these jackasses in the stench of the soon to be ass kicked. Going very still as his own assailant drew closer by the second, his compound eyes scanned the surroundings for any advantage, and the idiot with a chair leg for any weakness. 

Most of what he saw in his periphery was Yam unleashing the extremely literal power of Hell upon the hapless gangsters that got sent her way. As a chair rocketed from her oversized grip into the chest of what was once a guy that thought he might be the main character of his own story, Marty had the thought creep into his mind that maybe she wasn't so bad after all. An elite warrior like him could respect that kind of badass prowess in another. 

At the same time, Marty had finished his assessment of the goon that was now only several feet away. He recently consumed a large quantity of rhubarb, possibly as a salad dressing, had a cavity forming somewhere in his lower jaw, and took slightly larger steps with his right foot, which he also lead with. 

The bristling statue that was Marty sprung into action as he kicked a piece of shattered ceramic forward, perfectly timed to skitter across the floor so that the gangster's foot came crashing down onto its jagged edges. The sound of crunching clay and the yelp of surprise that immediately followed was music to Marty’s sensory fronds as he fell upon the man, now tripped to the floor. His blades were flashes of steel that punctured the body beneath him in the hands, in the legs, in the abdomen. Shallow cuts meant to debilitate and cause more than a little agony, but all extremely precise in their nature. 

He cried for a week straight the last time he killed someone. 

[color=#FA8072]“Hey buddy,"[/color] His proboscis warbled. [color=#FA8072]“I think red might be your color.”[/color] Little quips to get through the hard parts. The whole thing is the hard part though, so quip your damn heart out before the panic and impostor syndrome sink in. 

Wings fluttering, he arced off of the gangster, now writhing and groaning in pain, and landed a few feet away. Shaking his blades sharply, the blood flicked off into four thin spatters across the floor. When Yam called out to him, he breathed a sigh of relief. This is what it was all about. A human like Yam, capable as she was, would need to see Marty project strength in a time of strife like this. Of course she was checking on him. Naturally, he was never worried about her for a second, since he could see in plain detail how capably she'd been handling herself, but there was no telling how she might be feeling inside. 

Marty turned his head towards her, and struck a pose that he thought was a fair middle ground between gruff and heroic. [color=#FA8072]“Teaching criminals a stern lesson? Couldn't be better! We'll make sure they all think twice before messing with us, am I right?”[/color]

In some ways, if you squinted and were also a bit drunk, the statement was even maybe kind of slightly true. He did sound like he was constipated again though.[/color]