“A’right, a’right… I dunno what I was wearin’, honestly, if you’re lucky I ain’t wearin’ much, geheheh.”
He slowly nods, uncertain if he’s walking into some kind of dumb prank. Looking at Bow-wow again, he’s quickly confined there’s nothing this guy can do that will hurt him in a way that matters.
He steps past the threshold and is taken by the brief grogginess— it’s aggravating, the brief lapse of lucidity, and he looks more than annoyed as he regains his senses, lurching forward with a start and a growl like he’ll have a chance to stance up against whatever just did that to him; but he doesn’t seem to think it was Bow-wow, instead oriented further into the room with tensed fingers.
After that reflexive reaction to something trying to fuck with him, he stops. Then he flexes his fingers, feeling the lack of a straitjacket anymore.
Under his coat, he appears to be wearing his jeans and a white tanktop that looks like it should be an undershirt. With his arms and more of his chest barred, the rest of his tattoos are obvious, like the rest of his ribcage tattoo visible at his sides, or the massive and intricate tattoos like ritual circles and pentagrams as well as more urban themed tattoos like a barcode, smiley faces, and more natural ones of flowers visible on his arms.
He looks at himself for a second, pulling at the shirt before stretching his arms up and leaning to one aide to stretch his back. He half mumbles as he talks, looking perturbed other than the brief grin he flashes as he praises the other man.
“Thank fuck, that shit was heavy. Good find, Fido! Deeply fucked up though… what the hell was that? Like, when we walked in? Felt like I was passin’ out or somethin’. That happen t’ you too?”
