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By the time Tourmaline had pulled her bike up to Ken's excuse for a car, she was furious. The long drive home back from where ever Surion's bar existed had given her plenty of time to stew and devise all sorts of highly descriptive and unflattering names for the King of Spoiled Loins Land. Honestly, the teen had been lucky on several occasions that she didn't obliterate herself in a crash, and she knew it.

Rolling the bike so that the headlight pointed at the hood, Tourma pulled off her helmet and scowled in the general direction of Ken. "What happened?"

The fact that she had be ECSTATIC on so many levels for the excuse to get the hell out of dodge still didn't change the fact that she was in a less than savory mood.

Not in the least.

Her response was a long, heavy sigh coupled with a deep rubbing of her temples. After another 'calming' breath, she dismounted her bike and began digging in her saddlebags. Soon, a small mag light, a laundry bag, and one of her old wifebeaters were resting carefully on the seat.

"Let me hear you try and crank it," she finally told him with a wave of her hand.

Without so much as a warning, she began to carefully peel her layers of clothing off one at a time. They were folded, and tucked into the small laundry bag. Once she found herself in only her bra from the waist-up, she stuck the flashlight in her pocket and grabbed her wifebeater, which she tugged on over her head as she meandered her way towards the clunker.

At the moment, her anger negated any care for modesty that she actually had, especially since she often walked around in her house wearing a sports bra and her favorite sweatpants.

As expected, her burning rage only seemed to increase tenfold, and even though she knew better than to take it out on an innocent bystander such as Ken, that night, it was going to happen. She'd feel bad after.

Luckily, the drunken men had disappeared just as quickly as they had appear, otherwise Tourma would have done some damage.

"It sounds like the starter," the Skullmonkey said in an oddly calm voice.
Shaking, she stormed quietly over to the driver's side and leaned in to pop the hood, nearly yanking it off with the force. Moments later, the hood was pushed open and she was bent inside with the flashlight.

Not that she could fix the problem without the parts anyways, but she was trying to calm herself down as much as possible. It wasn't working.

Finding the starter, she took the end of the flashlight and gave the part a few solid whacks just as Ken appeared next to her. "Try it again," she answered shortly as she stepped back from the hood.

If the starter's connections had been lose, then the car might start now. If not, they'd have to pursue other options. And by 'they' she meant herself.

A growl, that quite possibly could have been mistaken for the car starting miraculously, came from the general direction of the teen. She stood with her tail lashing behind her and her arms crossed over her chest. The scowl was directed at the car.

The fact that the answer didn't just come to her seemed to frustrate Tourma, which in turn made her angrier. This dangerous positive feedback loop took her concentration to nearly zero and it showed. Stepping forward, she stuck the flashlight in her mouth to free her hands, which reached up to grab the edge of the hood.

This was her deal. Her speciality, and for the life of her the answer wouldn't just come like it usually did. She knew it was thanks to the traffic jam of thoughts and the fog of anger in her mind. For all intensive purposes, she felt just like the car: broken.

A low muttering snarl in Polish followed by a kick or two to the bumper later, she released her grip on the hood, leaving the metal bent and molded as if it had been just aluminum.

"I don't know..." She finally said feebly.

Her shoulders slumped as he admitted defeat to the car. "Okay." Even she knew that no further progress would be achieved on the car that night.

Out of habit, she wiped her hands on the white tank (they felt moist) before taking the flashlight and shoving it back into her saddlebag. She didn't even notice the blood streaks that now adorned her shirt.

"Yeah," she grunted, voice beginning to once again match the anger billowing inside of her. It was then that her hands had begun to not only feel wet, but throb most annoyingly.

"s**t!" Came her snarl seconds later as she stared down at her bloody palms. Bits of metal shone a metallic red in some places.

Her head jolted upwards and her eyes widened. "N-nothing!" She said quickly while pressing her hands back against her shirt to try and stop the bleeding while hiding it. "I'll see you back at home."

With that, she threw on her leather jacket and gingerly stuffed the laundry bag into her saddlebag. Mounting her bike a moment later, she soon rumbled out of sight in the direction of the house.

Hopefully she wouldn't bleed too much on her bike as she drove back.

Luckily for her, Vi had chosen that night to visit a friend. This meant that she not only did not have to explain the bloody hands and shirt to her sister, but that the vodka that was in order could be consumed.

After she had bandaged up her hands as well as possible, she took the bottle of Polish vodka with two shot glasses into the living room. At first she had been actually taking shots, but by the time that Ken came home, the Skullmonkey had long since abandoned etiquette and was occasionally sipping directly from the bottle.

The rumble of the tow truck caused her to perk up somewhat and heave her body up from the couch. Ambling her way to the door, Tourma poked her head out into the hallway connected to the front door just as Ken was pulling off his jacket.

"Sup?" She replied jovially before taking another sip from her bottle. Surveying his general mood, she closed the distance between them and hooked her arm in his, dragging the older boy with her to the living room. "You need to join me." Tourma insisted.

Once there, she poured him a shot in the second glass and presented it to him.