Striker ఌ『 ⍟ 』

Striker grumbles in annoyance, walking to some random pub that he had found while on the road. He really needed a drink. Nothing had been going his way recently and he was about one fuck up away from losing his shit. One of his hands each up to lightly touch his right eye, which had almost burned during that skirmish he had with Blitzø and that other clown fuck. What was his name? Fuckin’, Fizz-something. Doesn’t matter anyway. He hates the little shit either way.

He yanks his hand away from his face and shoves it into his pocket, now internally seething at the rememberance of his defeat. It didn’t make sense how Blitzø could always get away. He gets everything planned out but then one unexpected thing happens and it all goes to shit. It was like that bitch had plot armor or something. What bullshit. Anyway, he’s lucky he didn’t actually have any burn marks. Since he rolled around in some dirty ass water right after catching fire it just stung for a couple months. Thankfully nothing permanent.

He sighs and shakes the thoughts away, finally having made it to the pub and now walking inside. Without a second thought does he head over to the bar, sitting down on some shoddy stool. That really didn’t matter to him right now since he just really needed a drink. “Whiskey,” he mutters to the bartender who had just walked over to him, not bothering to even look over at the guy. He shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, hoping to get rid of the incoming headache before it fully formed. Once he hears the clink of a glass being set down in front of him, he opens his eyes and grabs the drink.

He’s about to down the whole thing when his attention is pulled towards some fucker who had just walked up to him and started talking. What they were talking about he had no fucking clue since he didn’t care. His tail slowly whips behind him, the end shaking and rattling like a snake warning an enemy to stay away. His lips form a sneer and it’s pretty clear that he wants them to leave him alone. But do they do that? No. Of course not. For fucks sake- Has he just lost it? Is the infamous assassin Striker just a joke now? Hell, if they don’t back the fuck up he’s gonna-

“What?” He murmurs in pure disbelief, his head snapping towards them. He places his glass back down on the counter without having had a chance to take a single sip, but his focus is now on the demon with the guts to… Unholy hell- to ask him to say ‘yeehaw’. “What the fuck did you just say to me?” He asks with a narrowing of his eyes, sitting up a little straighter than before. He seemed ready to smack the shit out of them, though there was still a flicker of confusion in his eyes. “Do you think I’m some stereotypical cowboy or some shit?”