check it out, troops. count chocula.
tell me something, chief. can you blush?
you're not going anywhere, greenjeans. you won't be able to pass for us.
you don't keep that dog of yours curbed, blade. we might have to do it for you.
jesus, can't you get him to shut the fuck up!?
somebody put him out of his misery for fuck's sake!
what the hell?
and so will we.
spare me the race card, oj. we're not going out into the sun. it's too risky.
you buying any of this chocolate elvis bullshit?
how?
this is fucking foul!
so?
enters from the shadows, holding scud's rail-gun. much of his face has been burnt away, leaving him with a ghastly death's head mask of blackened muscle and exposed bone.
put it back in park, blade.
seems like there's a lot of that going around these days.
six-thousand feet per second, isn't that what whistler said? let's see you dodge this one --
thought you had me on a short leash, didn't you, chief? only it turns out, you're the one that's been on the leash.
that's better.
son of a bitch!
what about him, then? me and hobo kelly here have a little unfinished business.
nice.
how many vampires do you think he's killed with this thing?
keep talking, warmblood.
when i'm through with you, you'll be begging for a dirt nap.
shit!
stop him!!!
the vampire mercenary clutches blade's sword in his hand, but the weapon provides him with little sense of security given that he's just seen a dozen of his men slaughtered. the automatic sprinkler system is on now, spraying water down upon blade and reinhardt alike. blade advances.