Phantom Hollow a slab in the morgue

He was furious.

Even after she'd completed yet another tirade and his awareness of her lack of association with Moonspear came to light, Screech could feel only one distinct emotion beneath the cacophony of his heightened emotional state: pure and utter rage. It wasn't directed at her comments so much as... Everything else. Like the volcano of his birthplace, he took each verbal hit after verbal hit, until finally exploding.

Really? You should. They'd love you. An invasive black bitch who thinks too highly of herself and attacks strangers in the dark? What a bargain! They'd add you to their family of fuckery so fast your pretty little head would spin. His hoarse voice made some of those syllables turn a bit too high, or garble a bit too low, but through it all Screech did what he always did best: he used volume to dominate the conversation.

Wait.

How the hell was he having a conversation right now? His face was a mess. He probably wasn't even looking in the right direction! For fuck's sake.

It's not like I wanted this to happen! I didn't even do anything and those bitch ass girls thought I owed them an eye—like, who the hell does that?! He was pacing now (well, sort of) and slogging through the snow while his paws easily tripped up, and he swayed a few times towards a total wipe-out, or careened close to a dim gray tree trunk in the process.

He leveled his one good eye her way, and after steadying himself somewhat, stated: Look, lady, just get out of here. Get out of my face—we'll both be happier if you do.