MOVE, BITCH!

GET OUT THE WAY,

GET OUT THE WAY,

GET OUT THE WAY

As usual, Quicksilver was sitting on a bright red couch in his local bar. With beautiful ladies surrounding him, he felt like a true pimp.

His favorite lady was seated on his lap, running her hands through his oddly colored hair. She was obviously the prettiest of the group that surrounded him. He felt an overwhelming sense of pride. He knew Wester couldn't get a girl this gorgeous.

"More wine for my favorite lady?" he asked with a smirk as he showed the girl propped on his lap a large bottle of the bar's finest wine.

"Why, yes. Thank you," she said as she held out her glass. "You're such a gentleman."

The wine poured gently and filled her cup to the brim.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't 'Qui-hic! Qui-hic!' Quicksilver."

The orange haired pimp looked up to find a man much larger than himself, with a hard, cold face covered in scars. He was much larger than him in the sense of muscle tone and height as well. Quicksilver was pretty scrawny but nonetheless, a fearful opponent. The man that had dared to challenge him—and would regret it soon—had short, black hair and very dark skin. His eyes seemed to be completely black but that could've been due to the poor lighting in the pub.

Whether it was the piles and piles of empty wine glasses that fueled his rage or not, Quicksilver was trembling with cold, hard fury. No one insulted him like that. If this man would survive the insane ass-whopping he was about to get, it would be a lesson that he would remember for the rest of his short, human life.

Shoving the beautiful woman aggressively off his lap and making her hit the floor hard, he shouted, "Get off me, wench! I will teach this drunken fool a lesson that his punk-ass will never forget!"