"And you are the newest member of our team, then? Crap Matthews, is it?" Mason Templar laughed loudly.
"My name's not--"
Templar put one beefy arm around Epicenter's shoulder (who, though tall, looked smaller in comparison with the tall and stocky Mason Templar) and continued, interrupted what the man began to say: "It never ceases to amaze me how much trust this organisation seems to grant membership to any old stranger who knocks on their doorstep and asks for admission to their team. Why, they're even accepting new members recruited from enemy organisations such as the Strikeforce!"
Epicenter tried to speak, "Yes, but..."
"Now, you wouldn't happen to be a filthy spy, would you? A rapscallion sent by Jack Merlin to watch our every move until he has enough power to strike against us? Not that I have anything against rascals or rapscallions -- hell, I proudly consider myself to be one -- but in the old days we used to execute spies immediately. No trial whatsoever. Can you assure me that you are no spy, Mr. Crap Matthews?"
"I'm not a spy, and my name's not 'Crap,' it's--"
Templar frowned and pointed a finger at something dangling from Epicenter's hair. "Oh, dear me. There's something in your hair."
"--SHIT!"
"HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! HA!" Mason Templar laughed loud and long as Epicenter got the last piece of bird-shit off of his head.
