“You’ve got an armored suit on,” Sharise said, jabbing her finger in Anne’s direction. “You should feel safer than anyone else here. And you should feel thankful for that safety, since they’re coming after you — not me or Jizz Man overe here.”
“Yeah, but the suit’s a little fucked up,” Anne said. “I don’t know what the hell this thing’s going to do, since it’s not ready for battle.”
“Well, you better pray that the killers out there — the highly-trained professional killers out there — don’t figure out how to break down the garage doo–”
In that very moment, The Angels of Heck broke through the garage door with a grenade. It went off with a loud bang.
“Fuck!” Sharise yelled, diving behind a steel table.
Anne looked out at the mess, trying to figure out the best way to kill these motherfuckers who were trying to kill her.
Jizz Man was oddly unperturbed by all of the events. He stood there, stoic.
The Angels of Heck stood there, four washed-up punk rockers. There was the lead guitarist, wearing a red bandana, uncomfortably tight jeans, and poorly-applied mascara.
The guy who’d been their drummer was sporting a bald spot, a gut, and still carrying around the drumsticks from his old days.
There was the former bass guitarist, wearing a crown and sporting two machine guns.
Finally you had the guy chucking grenades at people. He’d sung some songs and played the guitar. But honestly? He couldn’t keep the beat to save his fucking life. They’d only let him into the band because he scored the best weed and let the band have some for free.