The three instigators looked puzzled, suddenly finding themselves in the middle of a hostile mob, completely unaware they had started this madness, but soon finding themselves working feverishly to protect themselves. Frankie, on the other hand, was practically frothing at the mouth, his yells incoherent against the noise and confusion as he threw a punch to another male's face. An elbow whipped up and knocked him square in the jaw, nearly knocking off the plastic horizontal barred sunglasses decorating his countenance. Someone grabbed him by the back of his belt, yelling angrily that he'd stolen something of theirs. Without even thinking, he turned abruptly around on his heel and threw another punch, aggression sweeping him into blind retaliation. His target, a small female, dodged, and his knuckles connected squarely with the back of some bloke's head. The noise polluting the air, of that damn Rainbow Spice band, was driving him insane, fuelling his unadulterated hatred of the manufactured corporate-sponsored shite peeling through the block. He didn't even notice the familiar car barrelling towards the scene, horn blaring as an angry Frenchmen cursed and swore at him in a mix of French, English, and rage. With a swift kick, the Londoner's heel knocked the stereo over with a loud crash, device switching off from playing the CD to playing the BBC 1, Prodigy's 'Omen' pouring inappropriately into the air.
Now, the writing's on the wall!
It just won't go away!
At least it wasn't one of those damn programmes mindlessly rambling on about god-knows-what. Someone now picked up the stereo, interrupting the radio waves by yanking it unplugged and chucking it into the fray. A snarl cut out of the male's throat as he felt a kick to the ribs, far too intensely angry to care about what may happen to himself or others around him. As swiftly as the mood shift to irritable swept across his being, he suddenly stopped, right after grabbing a girl by her shirt and yanking her towards himself. Within the crowd, the three instigators once more set forth on their riot, feelings of hatred and rage swelling through their core in stark opposite of their puppeteer's emotions. A smile played across Frankie's face, once more feeling that euphoric state of happiness course through his veins. The girl he'd pulled towards himself now swung a fist, popping his in the bright sunglasses as the sound of plastic snapping popped into the air. Somehow, he'd been shoved to the outskirts of the rioting group, and now in his lucid state of mind, he reaped the gleeful acknowledgement of knowing he caused this. A laugh ripped out of his throat, wide smile spread across his masculine countenance as he felt an overwhelming swell of pride and joy. While her voice had been swept away from the snarled shrieks of the fan-base gone horribly awry, Simone's feminine snarls now caught his ears. The male turned his head, left leg of his crooked sunglasses dangling haphazardly at the hinge.
Simone?
She was approaching swiftly in the car, taking on the curb and landscaping without fear or retribution. A car in a riot? "Ace job Simone!" Frankie laughed, throwing the woman the horns by extending his index and pinkie finger, middle and ring finger held down by his thumb, as she barrelled towards him in the vehicle, "Just brill!" Had he been of more stable mind, he might have thought she was coming directly at him as opposed to simply trying to mow down the rioters. The sounds of the police sirens now caught his ears, the law enforcement agency apparently arriving swifter than anticipated. The crowd moved swiftly out of the Buick's way, whereas the punk himself spread his arms wide as if to hug the high-speed death-mobile. She was still screaming at him, and now he heard her clearly: 'Frankie, get in the bloody car! Now! Please! Or I'm leaving your arse!'
What a drag.
He realise now the Skylark wasn't barrelling into the crowd, it was riding the outskirts of the crowd in a drive-by pick up. With the police sirens getting louder and louder, the male decided begrudgingly that she was probably right. Besides... jumping into a moving vehicle had to be far more fun than jumping out of one. The male moved swiftly, running around the perimeter of the volatile mob with a laugh, taking wide strides to see about intersecting the car's path appropriately. If she slowed down, it would be fantastic. If she didn't... it would be hilarious. When the vehicle was close enough, he grasped his hands onto the door, ignoring the screams and shouts of the people behind him and the dog barking angrily in the back seat, as if telling him off right alongside its owner, and in one heave, he jumped and yanked himself into the 1968 convertible. Depending on her speed would define if he made it into the passenger's seat face-first or in the back seat eating dog-fur, laughing merrily the whole way. Regardless of where he landed, his shirt had caught the side mirror, loud rip peeling into the air as the brightly coloured fabric split and turned the mirror. His legs dangled over the side of the vehicle, and as if settling from a well-told joke, Frankie covered his face with his hands to try and calm himself down. It was difficult coming down from that attack, and sometimes the male found himself swinging back and forth between the two mental states until he properly sorted himself out.