Leslie howled, falling back to cradle his unresponsive arm, pain lancing up his fingers and overloading his mind. His breath quickened: pain honed his senses. Pain was a familiar mistress, comforting as it was abundant. And oh, how there was pain now, flooding his veins and twisting his limbs just-so.

With a wild laugh, Leslie lugged his club with his left hand, awkward in his grip. Somewhere, he filed away that he'd need to practise this, for later. But for now, he laughed hysterical and smashed it down against that horrible, smug face. Again, and again, and again.

"I don't give a s**t," he hissed, "about your master <******** race."

(There was an irony, here, in his racism: an ugly sort of rearing of the head that bored its dead eyes into Leslie's. Maybe hate of humans wasn't the answer. Maybe it was. He didn't know.)

"I'm going to grind you into ******** dust, you hear me? DUST."

hp// 16
dmg// 9
charge// 3/3, EY2 used, CHL1 remains

enoh love