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“How are you enjoying the exhibit so far?” Her jaw clenches on impulse, teeth grind against each other, for half a second before an effortless, half smile is forced to surface on her face. “The exhibition is beautiful – I am enjoying myself immensely.” Blinks, once, twice, good-she sounds convincing. The man, a former senator, businessman or a friend of her father- the faces of the high society class sometimes blur into one shapeless mass of talking heads, feigning interest in topics such as business, sports, politics, while mouths move animatedly over empty words devoid of meaning. But as the daughter of a soon to be reelected senator, she had no choice but to be present, smiling prettily under layers of makeup, with a coiffed hairstyle and feet squeezed into heels.


"A misunderstanding - you were part of a white power meeting,” A wolfish grin rears his mouth into a parody of a friendly smirk, and it immediately clicks that the smiling brunette man is not a friend of her fathers. "You can't help people talking about racial connotations, especially when your group attacked some Native Americans." His barb spurs her to reply with vengeance.


"Except-," corrects with a smooth and confident air, drawing her posture into a straight line, ‘don't let them rattle you’. “-Only one boy was Native American and the other two were his friends - white students. And incidentally, he has been arrested numerous times by his brother and released for acts of vandalism."
She continues, with an edge of indifference and the barest hint of mocking, "Perhaps you would prefer to look into the corruption in the police force, rather than what some white kids are doing school." Her eyes held a sword-like edge of mild rebuke, piercing into his face that been darkening a dark red in embarrassment, "or are you one to judge people by the color of the skin."
"No," he quickly replies, "But-"
"Then there is no reason to doubt me when I tell you that there was no KKK meeting in my friends house," favoring him with a cool, gentle smile, she says, "Do enjoy your time here, I am sure you will love the exhibition, particularly the artifacts from the Bribri tribe".

With a final departing smile, she moves effortlessly away to mingle with the other visitors. Inside, she is seething. Damn that stupid idiot, dredging up a failure she hoped she could put behind her with this exhibition on Native Americans. There was no regret, after all, they had done nothing wrong. A group of students, her friends, decided to meet at a friend's tree house one afternoon. It has nothing to do with race relations or the KKK. Peter had simply suggested they get together to discuss the contributions of white civilization, seeing as there was Black History month, and a National American Indian Heritage Month. Of course, the main reason was probably due to his interest in discussing his confederate grandfather, who fought in the war.


A few of them went along with the idea, Sheila, Philip and Theodore had come prepared with details about white societies and what they contributed to the world, while Brooke had joined in with great interest to hear them and even commented positively on their research. She wasn't much interested in the topic, rather she preferred to admire Philip.


He wasn't handsome, with a face full of pimples and an odd smile, but being sweet and articulate was his strengths. And while his speech on the white farmers in Zimbabwe received her positive impression, it was not that causing the butterflies to flutter in her stomach. The media hadn’t bothered with the truth, throwing a hateful glare at the reporters huddled next to a giant statue of an Indian that represented some Native American tribe’s craft culture. Now, she was stuck here, doing damage control, struggling desperately to repair the blow inflicted to her dad's campaign by the headline ‘Daughter of State Senator found in KKK group’.
When she finds out who did that mess, fingers itch to wrap around someone's throat, she will string them up by their ankles and beat them repeatedly with concrete...But first, how to pin the responsible party and discover how the media could trap them with the picture ...it was definitely intentional.


"Brooke, is everything alright?' Her father walks up to her, concern vivid from the arch of his brown to the frown on his features. Since the report broke out, a crease seemed permanently attached to his forehead, anxious about his daughter. "Yes, everything is fine." Smile, it’s full of reassurance, and her countenance relaxes while her guard drops. "You seemed upset talking to Mr. Williams. Did he say something to you?” Sparing a glance at the departing gentlemen, a frown tugging at his lips.


"No, no dad!" Squeezing the hand on her shoulder, "He hadn’t said anything that wasn't so horribly false…I can handle it all. " The smile grows until it changes her visage to something more calm and controlled, which seemed to please Mr. Augustine. A handsome man, his auburn hair, a shade darker than hers was neatly combed, the color adding a pronouncement to his sharp features; particularly his cheeks and nose. Brooke had the same problem, the red hair, a family trait, tended to deepen the curves and lines of her face. When she frowned, her friends teased that she resembled a demon.


"Just an hour more and you can leave." He promises, showing his understanding for her as fingers squeeze her shoulder in comfort. Head turns to the podium, decorated for the unveiling with shiny ribbon and a dark red curtain, he gestures with a nod, pride in his tone "You’ll be up there with me for the grand unveiling, Brookie, and it will be all worth it." The warmth of his fingers seemed to create an airy feeling in her chest and a flood of positive emotions; he was a good father, so considerate unlike some. Recalling for a brief moment with a tug of annoyance, Gwendolyn with a permanent childish pout, sitting in the closet in the basement, ear phones plugged in, and fingers tapping away at numerous texts because daddy wanted to drag her to some Indians show.


Brooke spent the next few minutes perusing the artifacts and sculptures on display, trying to understand the fascination with feather embellished headdresses and busts of men's faces, weathered by difficulties and oily in texture, inked with war paint. There were plenty of animal motifs and a rich use of color embedded in elaborate costumes that boasted vivid imagery and jewelry. Yet, Brooke felt nothing inspirational from these old works showing the creativity and uniqueness of a forgotten group of tribe people. She didn't comprehend the fascination people showered on forgotten ancient tribes that lived long ago, a few steps from cult that boasted a vested interest in nature, animal skins and herbal magic and little else. It seemed so surreal, and odd.

Nature to her was a room surrounded by computer or books, testaments to man's ingenuity. And for all her understanding of politics and culture, it didn’t quite comprehend why the rich people of Seattle found the Native American tribe that used to live here so remarkable, what was so special. Clinging to the past was..unnecessary. "Excuse me, Brooke. Your father wants to see you at the stage.” The voice of her father’s secretary drags her from her musings, and she immediately heeds the call of the pretty dark-haired 24 year old.


Tearing her eyes from the Indian man drenched in furs and steering his war painted horse across a river flowing with vivid colors, she takes her place beside her father on the podium. Looking out at the large crowd of rich donors and socialites as well as community members of the town, she notices the varying degrees of interest in their stares. Most look respectful while others bear their appreciation and admiration plainly on their faces.


She finds she likes basking in their reverence and feeling them look to her authority. A thin smile lifts her lips, awaiting her father’s cue. When he delivers his speech, it is articulate and expressed in his distinct smooth tone. He said, “It is my greatest pleasure to stand before you to unveil the newly acquired Native American exhibit that shows the rich history and culture of the Native Americans living here. They are an important part of the social fabric, and there needs to be better attempts to promote peace and harmony. This piece I have recently acquired was purchased for the exhibit and demonstrates my commitment to the people of this town of all nationalities and races.”


He began to emphasize how the new Native American exhibit would help spread cultural awareness and enlightenment in their town. And judging from the positive vibes emerging from the crowd, there were many who had begun to see her father like she did – a strong, charming and positive role model that would inspire actual change. Her mind was only half attentive to the speech; after all she had heard it for days, echoing through the walls of his study. Towards the end, fingers grasp one end of the cloth, and she dutifully takes the other end.


"My friends and loyal supporters, I present to you this ancient work that I discovered that I think represents the rich cultural heritage of the Native American Indians who are an integral part of our multicultural society.”
The curtain was swept away with a flourish and for a second, both father and daughter await the respectful murmurs of approval. Their illusions were shattered as several cries resembling horror and shock hit them hard, even a few uncontrollable guffaws of laughter could be heard. Brooke and her father uttered twin gasps of dismay at the empty spot where the painting was meant to stand as a proud symbol. Instead scribbled into the expensive wall is a mock caricature of Mr. Augustine with the words “liar” and “whitie’ scribbled on his face in block letters. There were several shouts of indignant anger as realization dawned that the walls of a distinguished museum are marred by graffiti.


Her eyes swept over the gleaming bright paint that exaggerate her father’s features to a rude and gross degree, a frown darkens her features at the horrible writing etched on his caricature that was obnoxious and petty – a childish attempt at an insult. But it was insulting and disrespectful; Brooke felt a sudden wave of pure unadulterated fury scream through her body, her cheeks grow hot and her eyes move lividly across the room, looking for the culprit.


Mr. Augustine tries to calm the crowd and walk away with some dignity. Beads of sweat awash his forehead creased with worry mixed with anxiety. The fact that this was allowed to happen so close to the elections would play badly on his re-election campaign. Around him, guests had begun whispering under their breaths, making small accusations about him, eyes skewering his form with judgmental furtive looks. Her stomach twists into a thick knot, the air is sucked out of her lungs on noticing the frustrated embarrassed expression hanging on her dad’s face. All that work – ruined over one stupid prank. The anger only grew until it was a hot steaming liquid that flooded her whole body. She had a feeling who was responsible for this and damn her if she wasn't going to make that bastard pay. Turning on her heel, she descended from the stage, her gait heavy with purpose. She ignores the questioning looks and shouts from the people she pushed past, not sparing them a glance, though a few voices were commiserating and friendly. Grabbing her phone from her purse, a quick call was made to her friends and then, she drags Gwendolyn along, ignoring the girl’s protests and slight mocking laughter falling from playful lips.


Her small group was soon trekking carefully through the forest that was a few blocks from the museum. Lancelot and Theodore follow behind her, while Sheila and Philip walk together on her right. They trek on a path cut through the woods often used by tourists and the residents who wanted to have late night parties, do séances or for the lower dregs of society, to poison themselves with drugs and beer. Brooke illuminates their way with the torch in her hand, and with the other, she clings to Philip’s coat that he had draped around her. Ever the gentlemen, he didn’t want her to mess up her dress.


Leaves crunch under their feet and the cool forest air nips at their skin. Gwendolyn tries to keep up, breath huffing, as groans erupt from her mouth due to an unsteady balance she has to maintain while keeping pace with her friend. “You sure you want to do this, Brooke?” She manages to puff out, trying to see her profile in the dark, “What if they want to start a fight?” “They're just some stupid trash that entered the University cause of affirmative action!” Didn’t seem she is even trying to be politically correct not when the bastard humiliated her family. “Are you sure he did this?” Gwendolyn stepping in time to rapid pace.


“Yes, it was him,” she snaps, giving her a dirty sidelong glance, “who else would use such cheap paint and have such a disregard for private property - that jackass is going to pay for this.” Lancelot uttered a small cry as his legs nearly tripped over a branch, and he had to jerk his body to keep upright. “Why can’t we do this in the morning, it will be even better during the day to dispel mob justice. Why do we have to go after that idiot now!” His voice a high pitched whine with a shrill of annoyance.


Brooke didn't even bother answering, just continued with greater urgency into the direction of the abandoned warehouse. Two of her friends were softly complaining to each other instead of speaking directly to her and she blocked out all the unnecessary sound. Her mind buzzing with thoughts of revenge. “We'll be there soon!” She calls halfheartedly over her shoulder, and then her gaze caught the bright lights visible in the distance.
She marches to the steel gate, eager to give that errant delinquent a piece of her mind. Philip helped her push open the doors, it made a scraping sound as the steel ripped against the mud and stone.

“Wait here, Gwendolyn - and get ready to call the police.” Her friend’s face was overtaken by a worried frown, “Why? Do you think it will get bad in there?” She doesn’t see it, but she knows her friend’s fingers are tightening around her phone in a nervous grip. Her gaze catches a few of his graffiti on old, weathered signs, and immediately took her foot to one. Imagining it was his face, and she was stomping on his head. Her eyes glittered with resolution in the dim light from the lamps. Once she reigns in her anger, she gestured to the cottage a few feet away, “Let’s go!” She told them.


“What if they offer us liquor?” Theodore murmured to his friend, and there was worry heavy in his question, “He didn’t want to get into trouble.” “Refuse,” Philip muttered, moving to stand beside Brooke, “You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to.” As they neared the cottage, a heavy techno beat filled the space like a cloud, pushing the silence and tranquility of the forest as a distant memory.

Soon they were standing a few meters from the entrance, the music blaring loudly in their ears and voices were mixed in. There was also laughter, the foolish kind that made her think of cackling hyenas. The party was in full swing and somewhere he is laughing it off with his friends. The red head was about to stomp to the entrance, and face the jerk when a few of the people caught her angry, furious figure despite being under the haze of alcohol and probably drugs, and they either laughed among themselves. Their faces flush and red from the exertion of drinking and dancing.

 

A dark-haired teen lazing on the porch hollers “Delsin,” loudly through the open door, “The Brooke is here.”

Eyes roll, annoyance flickers on her face, as she throws him a hateful glare at the ridiculous nickname.  Anyway, she doubts Delsin actually heard given how her ears thump slightly from the loud music. Someone must have informed him, Delsin saunters out, sweat dots his skin and his dark complexion has a touch of red.  


“Hey, Brooke.” A smirk dancing on his lips, and his eyes glitter with a childish humor.  She is face-to-face with the insufferable leader with his posse trailing behind him.

 “Guys,”   the young man drawled, his smile widening until his teeth flash, “The Senator's daughter has decided to pay as a visit.”  And that childish inflection in his tone made her teeth grit in anger.

 

Brooke has a hard time restraining her anger at his cavalier attitude after what he did. Delsin still has a smug grin dancing on his lips, and it stretched his face into a comical look. As if he did anything to warrant looking so pleased with himself, she thought irately. “Hey Bookie, what brings you here?” Eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief.
“I think you know what I'm here doesn't Rowe. .” Speaking in a cool, icy tone, while anger shows in her furrowed brow and deepened lines on her face. Back stiffens rather than allow herself to get into an attack position.


“No, I don't know why daddy’s little princess decided to come here to my party.” He shrugs his shoulder. “I am here because you stole something from me,” she snaps, steel entering her voice as her teeth grit in frustration. “I want the painting back.” Eyes burning into his features, silently trying to intimidate him with her hardening anger, but it didn’t change his playful expression.


“Hey Marie, tell the little princess that we don't have any painting.” He turns his gaze to a pretty Mexican girl by his side. She repeats the answer, and her eyes glitter with amusement and a hint of pleasure, as if she is about to burst out laughing.


“Like I said.. no painting here!” And he repeats the languid motion of shrugging his arms before he refuted her accusation with a lazy drawl, “Maybe you wanna go accuse someone else!” Arms fold across his chest, and he waits a breadth for her reaction. Lips condense into a stern line, eyes narrow and her voice is tight, “Don't think I believe in your pathetic innocent act. Snaps with disgust. “You stole it - a priceless painting and replaced it with horrendous graffiti art. Don't you have any shame for performing such a criminal act when my father is honoring your people!” The edge rises in her tone, and the accusatory inflection just adds another layer of anger.


Maybe a guilt trip would likely get him to hand over the painting without much fight. A slow smile curled across his lips, bearing a smug and mocking crescent. “Priceless you say.” And his brows arch, and a snigger falls from his nose almost like a snort of derision. “But come on, an old painting can’t compare to real art from an actual Native American. You should be thankful I gave your little tribute a modern twist.”


His smirk widens at her eye roll, before she spares a glance at her friends behind her who bear varying degrees of annoyance at his antics. None of them wanted to be there. He cranes his neck to meet the eyes of the short girl behind him, “What about you? Abigail. You thought it was good, right!”
Abigail Walker strides as if she was part of a bad play, her short pink hair gleams a shiny neon sheen. His girlfriend or fuck buddy, Brooke don't really know what kind of relationship the two delinquents shared, but the way she laughs along with him , it was evident that the relationship was based on nothing meaningful. A fun youthful romp perhaps.
“Did you like my work, Fetch?” Posing the question with an induced levity in his behavior.


“I liked it a lot,” Walker answers as per their collusion, mimicking his comical act, “Especially liked –how-um- it was very relevant to Native American art.” Looking pointedly at her causing a frisson of fear to run through Brooke’s body. There was a hidden meaning in her words. ‘If you mean criminal behavior then - yes it does reference certain aspects of native American culture.’ She wants to blurt the words out just to see his self-absorbed look falter, but she bit down on them. There was no doubt it would worsen the situation.


“I didn’t see what aspect of Native American culture it was attributed to – it looked the work of a spoiled thug with no respect for his own culture.” Was the snappish reply, while tension thickens in her neck and shoulders. That engenders a jerk of annoyance on his face, as his eyes narrow. “That is racist!” Eugene cries, hurrying to stand beside his friend.


“It is only racist if it’s an unproven misconception and you just proved it true.” Her lips drew upwards in a small smile, arrogance hanging on her features. Her arms relaxing to framing her hips. Agitation grew among their ranks and they did what they considered their best impression of incontinent rage as if their own ancestors were wronged. “You better stop talking shots at my culture.” His eyes sharpening, while teeth flash inside a wolf-like sneer, and his voice had the expected effect of quieting down the crowd.


“I am not – I am revealing my contempt for you and your ilk.” She snarls, eyes flashing. Her friends began muttering angrily among themselves, Lancelot and Gwendolyn faces are cloudy with dark fury and aggravation. “Just give the picture back, Delsin.” Her fingers tighten on the ear phones. “We're not giving the picture back,” And she looks unimpressed at him as he can manage to interject a harshness into his tone for some perceived slight, “- so you can run and tell Daddy that the Native American culture will not be cheapened by some ridiculous political stunt.” “Yeah!” Several of his friends laughed and hollered in unison. “Yeah,” Abigail stepped forward, “the tribe are not going to be treated like props – just cause your dad needs to win the re-election.”


“What if I go to the police,” A wave of exhaustion washes over her and she is suddenly so fed up with dealing with this lower class scum that got into Seattle University on handouts and stupid scholarships for minorities. A slow smile spread over the boy’s face, a sudden just Cheshire-like grin. He takes a step closer, and a sudden anxiety twists in her gut. “Sure, go to the police..” Flashing her a smirk that reflects his self-assurance, and he adjusted his beanie that is tainted with pink paint. “You're welcome to go to the police anytime!” A tinge of smugness in the knowing smile he shares with his friends beside him. “The police are just going to search for the painting and during the course of the investigation..will probably get it appraised.” He has a cocky drawl to the words, and it feels it is there to irritate her on some level, and it’s working. His smile stretches until it feels like a shining beacon advertising her failures. Her fist by her side, twitches, demanding she aim it to his face.


“They will get it appraised..” Preening like a fucking peacock, “- they will find that the painting is not worth the price you said it was. You’ve been lying to the town about it.” Fear drops like a hard stone in her stomach, before anger flares like a fire. “Now you're an expert on priceless works of art,” Releasing a snort of derision, and crossing her arms across her chest to hide her shaking fists. There was a razor sharpness to her smile like a sword.

“Ya know I'm an expert on my culture and artifacts. I can tell when something is obviously fake.”
“Plus,” he said, rolling his shoulders languidly, “I think I have better taste in art.” A snort of derision, and openly she mocks him. “I have seen your taste in women,” Tilting her head towards Abby, “I sincerely doubt the veracity of that comment just by looking at your girlfriend.” And the remark is petty and a product of her simmering rage, and it has the effect of angering Abby, who lurches forward in an attack. Hands hold her back, it could be Eugene or that girl, Ruby.
Abigail face contorts into an ugly expression, eyes burning, “what d’you say? Bitch.” Some other guy Marcus probably, keep his fingers tight on her arms.
“I understand you are having problems at home - as most Native Americans do! There is no need to result in criminal activities..” The line is delivered as a sardonic taunt that is echoed in the icy sneer, eyes glittering darkly. She covers her annoyance and frustration well.
“Racism what a surprise!” The smile that flutters on his lips is more amused than insulted, maybe cause he feels that he is fighting for a cause, protecting his family’s legacy. They have differing views of the same event, one is the perpetrator and the other a victim- but good luck convincing either of them of their position.


“As if what you did was not shameful.. No, I was merely referring to common statistics.” It wasn’t a defense, her stance is still aggressive, and she didn’t show any sign of remorse. His friends stir restlessly, glowering at her with open hostility, though their faces were obscured by shadows, with patches of color light up by the backdrop of light from the house and their neon glow sticks. Their open disgust and hatred shimmer coldly. Brooke could care less for them, barely sparing their feelings a cursory glance, her gaze roams over the belligerent Native American boy. The only thought in her head, beating like a sign is a way to get that painting back.
“Statistics or not, you shouldn’t talk what you know nothing about!”


“Follow your own advice!” She retorts, trying to stop her teeth from grinding in annoyance. “Where did you keep the painting- just hand it over! You committed a felony and your brother can’t help you now.”


His eyes don’t lose their sparkle, and neither does the bright smile fade. Every threat or warning seems to bounce off this overweening and casual demeanor. ‘Did he ever take anything seriously?’ She wonders. “Chill lady, you are not in control.” He sniggers, “I don't think you want the cops involved any more than I do.” Delsin had been planning this for some time, carefully working out the various details till he was assured that it would go off without a hitch.

Brooke suppresses the fury that stirs her blood into a near frenzy when she notes the twinkle in his eyes. He really is so brazen. “ How about we talk this over? You agree to feature actual Akomish culture –something colorful."

"And.." He continues with a self-confident air, basking in the attention he receives from the eyes fixed on him, "You dad also has to agree to meet with the elders to discuss the mall development project.”

There is a shrewd glint in his eyes, and a smug fringe to his words, as if the sentence is carefully constructed to be used as a weapon.

“And I will give you your painting back.” The mirth that bubbles on his features loses their boyish charm for a second, and she discovers the marks of an idiocy.

She fixes him with an ice cold glare, gritting her teeth. “The deals have already been signed. We can’t back out just because you and your tribe think the land is sacred because some of your ancestor was buried there.” It was a struggle to keep the contempt from being audible, not like these drunken buffoons could comprehend anything in their partially drunken state.

A knot of tension twists her insides, fury contorts the lines on her face till they blaze at his utter impudence.  Whispers rise behind her, and she can hear Lancelot distinctly snap in anger, "The audacity of this delinquent. What a low-thinking jackass!”

 

She could taste his fear, palpably filling the air, yet no discernable tremble entered her voice.

 

she snapped, whirling on him.

 

 

 

A deep sigh emanated from the hole.

 

 

 

 

 

Her lips drew downwards in a firm line, suspicion hanging on her features.

 

Sam squirmed miserably; a sheen of sweat highlighting his brow.

 

Integra's cool eyes were disapproving.

 

“Some of my ancestor died at sea, you don't see us claiming it as the Holy Land.” She resorts snarkily, her irritation is obvious now and it causes him to lose that confident smile to drop.

Good, she managed to wipe that smirk off his face. “Can you believe his gurl?” Abigail mutters to Marcus, gesturing with her thumb. The boy glowers, hate clear, and his braces sparkle in the moonlight. “Hey, your ancestors stole the land.” His accent thickening the words in his mouth.

“Oh, shut up Marcus,” Gwendolyn spoke up, pointing a manicured finger at him.  “Your ancestors probably illegally cross the border.” Tossing her long blonde hair over the shoulder with a huff.

 A cloud of collective anger and indignation rose from the group behind Delsin. They were upset on his behalf. “Hey, you don't get to be a bitch,” Marcus raised his arm, standing in defense of his friends. “Come on Delsin, let's just kick her ass.” Encouraged Abigail, while Eugene slowly walks backward to disappear behind the group

Many of the big-headed thugs echoed his sentiment, itching to start a brawl, their angry murmurings of threats and violence in the exchange of whispers.  

"

 

"You say you are not a criminal… but we all see the path you're leading,” She tells him sternly, holding his gaze with her fierce one, eyes drawn together, and face set in a stony countenance. The urge to insult him is strong, but she keeps them reigned in.

“There is a chance for you to do the right thing by handing over the painting and not resorting to blackmail.” Sheila shoves herself between Gwendolyn and Brooke, annoyed and frustrated.

“Hey, we are trying to do the right thing,” Delsin insists, unable to lose his casual, lighthearted manner of speaking, despite the growing animosity between them, growing as they made their dislike towards each other very vocal.

“We are standing up for the Akkomish people..standing up for what is right!” Raising his voice just a little, and his friends cheer him on, their shouts full of approval.

 It took all her willpower not to roll her eyes heavenward and throw something at him preferably her shoe.

“You are not- “ Lancelot snarls, fists balled by his side, hate in every word, brandishing a “ You are a bunch of criminals indulging in criminal behavior cause you are the lower class of society who serve no purpose but to occupy the lower positions in fast food franchises.”

It happens suddenly and the next thing they know the ground-quakes lightning flashes in the sky bright blue against the darkness. Only marry raises her eyes to it. But they're all understand that something is wrong with the ground biggest quick underneath the foot. Listen to each other in confusion was that an earthquake. You and threw himself at one of the guys to deliver a bunch the two boys went down foodstuff ticket at the Q the rest of Dustin's friends ran into the Earth. Delsin himself was tackled by joseph. And Augustine barely missed a bunch from pink hair. You're going to get it now bitch she yells crying toodaloo trying to punch make it right it's raining down on her to connect with her chin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a sudden chili wind had started up and gently grace there bones .. Shisha bars all she's wearing is the thing called again for her plain white dress she's pretty sure you put his daughter from her trip to the sports all the way to the dumpster. Keeping a voice today and fixing him with the most intense glad she can manage kama she makes another attempt. Delsin she says in the demanding authoritative voice you should..

 

 

 

 

It was a full-on brawl with legs kicking fingers hitting the skin giving way to the Augustine Hut the smash fists against bone and the clock she's British the pounding of Flesh she was pretty sure some of the boys got hurt in Garden of fuel Bunch good punches. Meanwhile she was grappling with Susie bingo and it helps that she had for her training she touched her punch and caught her in the neck with the switch up the woman resorted to using the jamming her knee against them purchase knocking her hair out of her lungs. Lil Suzy pushed her on her back and sat on top of her trying to bend her arms back so she'd have a field clear direction to her face. Sudden someone let out a cry sony pain and frightened. Michael what's going on and hailstones begin falling from the sky hillstone hit her right in the head it was small so didn't do much damage. What is caused Ali to push over and roll over to her side what the hell is freaking going on? The Boston accent heabu in her words.