Hard Fight

"Oy," Stickyfingers jammed his elbow into Catshit's ribcage-area, "Da f*ck you wai'ting on?"

"Oh, f*ck me," Catshit rolled his head, "OPEN FIIIIIRE! FIRE AT WILL, Y'DUMB F*CKING GITS!! F*CKIN' SHOOOOT!!!!"

Stickyfingers leapt out of the way, opposite the others. 

He didn't want to get shot. Getting shot hurt like all get out. 

Bang bang. Dakka dakka. 

The sound of a hundred or more guns going off was... musical-- beautiful, poetic discord. 

Doc was crying. He'd be fine, though. He was also low-crawling through the mud like a slithering eel. 

Catshit was shouting orders. Real pompous of him, but in all honesty, it was probably for the best. 

Stickyfingers was having the time of his life. He was in his happy place. Everything was fine and dandy. 

The sweet scent of Orcish sugar filled the air. Danger was every which way. 

Chaos reigned. 

That meant no one could be bothered to pay him any attention.