Quin sucked another mouthful of cigarette into his mouth and let it right back out, attempting a french inhale. It curled upward past his upper lip, catching slightly in his darkened peachfuzz before rising again into his nose. He took some in, suddenly bailing and blowing it back out, hacking and coughing. Smoke rose into his eyes. They watered.

Play it cool, Quin. Play it cool. He tried to pretend his eyes weren't watering, nonchalantly rubbing them. Maybe he could play it off like he was allergic to something... perhaps to headlights or moonlight. No, that's stupid Quin. Stupid idea, Quin. Suddenly his hand was forced into his face and his cigarette dropped to the ground. Roger's fist continued into Quin's eyesocket. "DAMMIT. I wasn't ready, man!" He covered his eye with his hand. This cat is using freakin sneak attacks. Quin was angry and anger is hard to portray when your eyes are watering and you're rubbing your wound to prevent bruise formation. But Quin tried.

He shook his head and cracked his jaw. He loosened his shoulders and wiped his eyes. He made eye contact with a hot chick sitting on a truck. Damn, she probably thinks I'm crying. Come on Quin! Get yourself together! Quin's knuckles grew white has he launched his first attack. Approximately one yard away from Roger, he hunched forward and stuck out his right arm, clenching a tightly wound fist. From here, he performed what he called "the Grounded Helicopter attack," quickly turning in circles. Once he attained a decent speed, he slowly creeped toward Roger like a power saw of human knuckle about to grind into a piece of wood. This guy's toast.