His chin protruded and making those groovin' back-and-forth moves, his eyes slowly scannin' the room, his ears bombarded with rhythmic volleys of double bass-drum kickin', channeled from the Unholy Gods of the Underworld by the earphones of his old, 90's-spirited DIY walkman, Django sits. And hell dam', he sits fine! There's some gravity of his own in this 7'5" 240-pound body!

The top of his head still lets a thin streak of smoke, because, well, roadside mines aren't something you can just Schwarzkopf off. At least he changed the pants, and now sits (damn fine he sits!) in camo trouser shorts and similar jacket, with the white skull on a black Danzig T-shirt underneath. A smirk runs through his face, recalling he couldn't chase the Kraken up on the way here and had to let it run to the sewers. Just now, a tiny, shy reflex of sympathy in his mind hoped no one got hurt too seriously 'cause of that.

Shaking off his daydreaming and the present tense, Django looked around. Some faces, quite familiar, not too much, though. K.I.C.K.'s teamwork, but that ain't like you're sitting around a table, discussin', is it, now? He had been working there just a year, but got to know what the deal's about, and seeing all the pitiful crap walking the streets with no way out, felt he'd made the right decision to join.

Or that he had the 'right luck' to mix up the addresses and deliver pizza to the HQ. Needless to say, ten times big Extra Deluxe did earn him some entry and welcome! And now, here, it seems he's about to be deliverin' some pure axe-spiced stomach-kickdown once again.