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Michael was, to put it nicely, not prepared for this at all. His chest heaved as he stared down at the shattered barrel below him. Not only was he not prepared; he was fucking pissed, he was fucking pissed and was covered in dirty who-knows-how-old alcohol. His axe was gripped tightly in his left hand. Damn, this was not good. This was not good at all. His right hand wiped the sweat from his brow, pushing his hair back a bit. His throat was already hoarse from his screaming barrel destroying tantrum.

It's okay, calm down, find Jonathan, cry like a bitch then die viole- Nah fuck that scene. Find Jonathan, get the fuck out. Stay calm, stay calm. You got this.

Easier said than done, the moment Michael walked out into the main room of the bar, his eyes caught the camera staring back at him. Covered in sweat, booze, and possibly his tears; wait, was he crying? Michael rubbed a hand over his eyes before almost calmly and casually placing his Wayfarers over his eyes as a precaution. Not like it'd help. Camera already got a good glimpse of his misty eyes, hell, they probably heard, nay saw him smash the shit out of that storeroom. Probably watched him while he slept too.

It was almost comical, after that intense period of venting he was completely deadpan calm as if nothing had happened. Almost casually he planted the axe into the desk and turned his head towards the corner of the room, making a beeline for that damned camera.

His voice choked a bit, but after a second, he composed himself. "Hey..." What would he say? Hey mom, hey dad! Your son's a faggot and he's gonna die. Whoop-de-fuckadilly-doo right? Would he appologize for whatever he'd be forced to do on the island. Would he laugh, take it as a joke, and walk outside to realize it's not?

Nah. He knew his chances, he might as well say it while he could.

"Hey... Hey Danya?" He waved his hand to the camera to see if it was following him. He was unsure if they moved across the room, or if they were static, either way, he WAS sure he had their full attention. "O-Okay Danya, you listen, an' you listen good, okay?" Michael gripped his giblets through the front of his pants to make his point clear. "You have a nice, slow, long, jerk to these events, Danya; You pedophile sick fuck, you." His voice cracked as he spoke, tilting his head to the side. He chuckled, it was a fake one, but it's better than wearing a crybaby bitch pout. "Because when I win, and you damn well know I will... I WILL PERSONALLY WALK UP TO YOUR LITTLE CAMERA ROOM, RIP YOUR DICK OFF, AND FUCK YOU IN THE ASS UNTIL MY CHILDREN COME OUT YOUR GODDAMN MOUTH!" Michael's strained high pitched voice probably wasn't doing much in terms of intimidation, but damn it felt good to get that off his chest. Michael gave himself a hard punch in the mouth and turned around, yelling out the Ric Flair special.

Fuck it, if Danya blew his head off, at least he died threatening to rape him until he'd choke on his semen. Michael walked over to the counter, ripped his axe out of the table, and sat down at a nearby bench, exhausted.

Fuck, that was cathartic.
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We pissin' our pants yet? · The Pub