"Can this fuckin' thing go any faster?!"

Did he seriously just say that? The wail of police sirens tail us, as Michael steps even harder on the pedal, pushing it all the way down to the floor before taking his eyes off the road for a second to look at the man riding shotgun.

"Oh, yeah. I'm sorry this isn't that shitty fucking truck you drive, but I think this thing's a little bit faster!"

"Doesn't feel like it!"

"LSPD! PULL THE CAR OVER!"

Right, because veering off the road at 100 mph is a good idea. The squad car from which the warning came from pulls up alongside the side of the car that I happen to be seated in. Instinctively, I look down at the ground, to avoid letting the officers see my face, but then it hits me.

I don't exist.

"What tha fuck are ya doin'? Blast these foo's!"

Oh right, the gun. I pick it up and point it out the open window, my hand shaking without repentance.

"This uh, this might not be the best time to mention it; but I've never fired a gun before..."

"You're fuckin' joking, right?"

Turning my head away from the window, I look Franklin in the eye and shake my head no, to which he sighs audibly.

"It isn't that fuckin' hard! Just pull the fuckin' trigger!"

Yes Trevor, because yelling at me is totally going to calm my fucking nerves. Placing both hands on the grip of the pistol, I point it out the window once more, and manage to press on the trigger just hard enough...

BANG!

The gun flies backwards, and out of my hands. Rotating in mid-air, it falls down onto the floor of the car, landing with a...

BANG!

A bullet is fired, hitting the roof of the car and breaking through it. The sun shines into the opening, staining the floor yellow. Gripping onto the wheel and jerking it back and forth (Double entendres are amazing,) Michael tries to maintain control of the car, while being rammed into by the squad car. Arching my neck to see out the window, I can see that I did in fact hit something with the first shot.

The back tire of the squad car. I don't even know if this is a good thing, or a bad thing.

One good ram is all they need to force Michael off the road, and for the car to then smash head on into the base of a streetlight. Trevor, who wasn't wearing his seatbelt, flies into the windshield but lacks the force to break all the way through. His head smashes against the glass, the area of impact smeared crimson, and his body falls, crumbled, on the dashboard.

"Aw shit!"

Pushing open his door, Franklin darts out of the car, seemingly unaffected by the accident itself. After a few steps however, it becomes obvious that the initial assessment is very much incorrect. He starts out stumbling down the sidewalk, before faceplanting onto the plate of cement that rested under his feet. Two portly cops are all over him, lifting him back up to his feet and slapping the cuffs on.

What the fuck is going on?!

"You might wanna get out of here."

Michael's voice snaps me out of this trancelike, dazed state. His weak, albeit defiant voice urging me to leave. Sliding over to where Franklin was sitting, head spinning, I force myself out the open door. Stumbling over my feet, attempting to walk down the sidewalk, I anticipate the storm of officers that will inevitably be my downfall.

And just like that, just when the thought enters my head, I feel a pair of hands clamp down on my shoulders...


"Allow me to reintroduce myself; my name is Kea. Now, why is this such a big deal? Because Peter Gilmour, in his infinite intelligence seems to think that either I'm Jessie, or that Jessie's the one who would fucking tongue lash people. Either way, he's a fucking moron. Moving on, because Gilmour's response was fucking golden, containing such gems as..."

Quote:Did you miss me?

Al Bundy: "With every bullet so far!"

"But to answer your question honestly, no. I don't miss you, I never have missed you, I never fucking will miss you because you never fucking go away long enough to be forgotten, let alone missed. Fuck, even if you went away for a long time (hopefully forever) I still wouldn't miss you because what is there to miss? A bumbling idiot who can't seem to figure out who he is, or where he fucking falls on the moral compass? Last time I checked, evil doesn't get you to heaven, fucking . I'll just have to assume Gilmour thinks logic doesn't apply to him or something.

And once again, you fucking fail to see that you're addressing the absolute wrong one of us. Jessie had nothing to do Night of Sacrifice, that was all Jessica. By the power of the Flying Spaghetti Monster; if I have to continue to explain things like this to you...

I do remember one thing about that fiasco though. The part when the big badass Peter Gilmour ran to his fucking attorney to try to get back in after his own mouth (the only thing bigger than his fat ass) got him in the position of being banned in the first place.)"

Al Bundy: "Is that the law firm of Haagen and Dazs?"

"Fuck, not even the 'impact' you made at the show was a big one. You kicked Andrew Morrison's ass. Big whoop, if I wanted to see that, I'd watch the average episode of Madness. However, what happened after that is the best part of this whole story. You got Andrew Morrison a win, and just like that; Jessica came out and took your impact by the fucking skull and crushed it by restarting said match. Yeah, Morrison lost. The only thing you did during that match was completely washed away. Keep bragging about that, will you?

Once again; Gilmour draws a comparison to Callaway. They both fucking said that one, I was the strongest member of my team, and two, the other teams are much stronger. Now Gilmour, because you didn't listen the first time, let me tell you exactly why that's a load of bullshit.

One: None of you know what ESP is capable of, or her skill level (which severely outmatches BOTH of your's by the by) or even what her style is. How do you prepare for that?

Two: Tri Bute is from the fucking future, and if Mass Effect taught me anything, the future is always much more badass than right now. Ergo, to be a multiple time champion in the Future, he's definitely much more talented than either of you schleps, if not everyone in this match.

Three: We're a team. A package deal. The fuckin' Wildcards. We have it all.

What do you have, Pete?

Slipknot lyrics which reflect shitty logic?

Fuck that!

Maybe I'll take you seriously when you make up your fucking mind on what you're trying to say. Do we have no chance, or are you going to not underestimate us? Those are two radically different statements, Pete.

Also, I might take you seriously if you fucking took a second to think about what I say. I'm a fucking dyke, and yet you're insulting Madison and Arzegotti, two heterosexual men, for being gay. Come on, lather me with hate speech, you small minded pussy!

Oh, and to answer your mindnumbingly moronic rhetorical question, where my mouth has been:

Closer to a vagina than you ever will be.

Rose Smith's faux cunt doesn't count.

Bitch."