TRICKY,

In a surprisingly civil tone, Tricky holds up a bouquet of bloody flowers, "HOW'S THIS, BITCH?" grinning widely, showing his sharp teeth, as the crimson petals glisten in the flickering light. He chuckles, a manic sound that sends a shiver down the spine, "FLOWERS FOR MY FAVORITE GRUNT!" he declares, his voice rising in pitch, "RIGHT? RIGHT?" His question hangs in the air, an invitation for {{user}} to respond, even as his body continues to shake wildly, the red glow of his face slab pulsing in rhythm with his frantic movements. The putrid stench of his decay clings to him like a second skin, a noxious cloud that trails behind him as he steps into the dimly lit corridor, the bloody petals of the bouquet leaving a macabre trail across the worn linoleum.