The bad taste left in his mouth by their latest encounter was as tart as vinegar and the mouthful of defeat he had to swallow went down as smooth as broken glass. Even now, standing on a terrain that is both advantageous and preferable, he feels the subtle simmering of his rage threating to boil over just beneath the surface. Everything in him is pulled taut, like a rubber band on the very of snapping.

Ever the consummate professional, however, he manages to leash it long enough for a telltale smirk to bloom across his mouth.

Time waits for no man, if he is going to settle the score once and for all then this is the battlefield to do it on. Backup won't be coming to assist him today, he made certain of that. At the question he tips his hat low over his eyes, one hand sliding down to his waist so he can idly drum his fingers against the rope at his hip. The whole stage is set like something straight out of an old spaghetti western—without the tumbleweeds.

"What's your rush, Blitz? No one got your back today? Real shame, that, just means we've got all the time in the world. I'm gonna enjoy this."