[h1]Wilheim Sullivan[/h1]
[hr]
[sub]"C'mon, guys! I'm not that scary! Why don't you come on out, Slackjaw, and say hello to my fist? Oh, I'm sorry, did I say fist? I meant blade!"[/sub]

Wilheim groaned. He slowly rose up from his old wooden chair, bottle clinging in one hand, pistol in the other. He wiped his forehead with the pistol-hand, bit of grease on it. His eyes, a little irritated, glanced over to the open window.

"Isn't it a lovely day, Dunwall? Come out in the rain, with the rotting weepers and the infectious rodents! It's a beautiful rainy day in Dunwall!"

Outside, some unabashed jackass was yelling at the top of his lungs like there was no tomorrow, over the pitter-patter of the rain and the sirens going off in the distance. The neihborhood did not need this right now this, theatrical bilge rat coming here waking up folks who were trying to get a decent forty winks or have a calm round of drinks or...

Oh, he had to do something about this.

Wilheim arose from his creaky chair and stumbled over to the window, leaving the pistol on a table. He peeked his head outside to see the culprit of the commotion - an indecent dreg who hijacked a [i]Tallboy's legs[/i]. Ignoring the insane amount of skill, finesse, and luck an action like that would take, Wilheim breathed in and yelled out to the rooftop rider.

"Will you keep it down you enormous BLOODY [b]CUNT[/b]."

That old sailor's vocabulary was about to get a workout.