[ He took a tentative step forward, all curiosity and facsimiles of goddamn Bambi approaching fresh-lain snow. He tipped his gloved hand over the verdant curve of the bottle, and held it by the neck. Promptly lifted it and brought it onto his face in a vivid spray of glittering glass pieces — hundred of tiny weapons clattering to the floor. ]
You ever talk to me like that again and you’ll be looking behind you for the rest of your worthless fucking life.
[The back of the chair served to slightly soften the force of Jean-Phillipe’s head crashing into it, but not by enough. His head was swimming—eye broken open and bleeding out into the interior of his mask. He sat up, good eye taking in the situation; his brains were firing at rapid speed, and they each had a job to do. The first was analyzing the damage done—nothing that couldn’t be repaired. The other two were devising every possible outcome to fighting this individual—most involved forcing the man to eat his own testicles. He pulled his knife from the small of his back, stood up, and kicked the chair back and away from him.]
The alcohol can wait, you son of a bitch. All I want from you now is to hear you scream when I make you less of a man.
[Fantomex aimed a stab at Bullseye’s arm—he intended to take away the man’s ability to struggle before the feast began.]
Know what’s really disappointing? The fact that I’m running low—be a good little psychopath and find me more, will you?
Really digging the costume. What are you good for?
Alt-J - Left Hand Free (This is All Yours, 2014)