“Jesus Christ, Thymos, get your eyes checked.” Bang.
A two-liter of flat Dr. Popper exploded and froze in the same instant, a miniature of the Krazor X after the Absolute Zero Heat Death Cannon imploded in on itself and icy quills burst forth from the death machine. The executioner of both ice sculptures himself stood in a Weaver stance, left eye cast sidelong, taunting Mr. Thymos and trying not to let a smirk break through the airs he was putting on.
“Get off your high horse, Lio! You’re just talking big cause I won pickup Tuesday and you’re salty!”
“I didn’t say anything about my apparent skill at shooting the shit, Galo.” And then Lio started the gunplay pageant, which Galo found tiring after ten seconds the first time—after initially being, reluctantly, awestruck. Never in Galo’s wildest dreams—especially after becoming acquaintances then copilots then friends then coworkers—Lio’s posturing in their first clash of blades—and-chainsaws wasn’t all an act, after all. Lio was just like that. And it was stupid hot.