What's your favorite color, punk? VIII

TrashMouth's picture

What's your favorite color, punk? VIII

Trash Mouth's P.O.V.

The two men were laying motionless in the dirt. One of them, Jet Star, had blood streaming down the side of his face. Kobra Kid's jacket was singed and bloody from the wound underneath. An engine revved in the distance. In the distance, I saw a muddy Trans Am approaching. Automatically, I whip my gun out, my hand gripping the handle tight. The car stopped right in front of my feet. Two figures get out of the car, both bearing concerned looks on their faces. They don't acknowledge us in any way, and walk towards Jet Star and Kobra Kid.
"Oh no..." I hear one of them murmur. He had bright red hair that stuck to his sweaty forehead. He jogs the rest of the distance, and when he reaches them, he kneels down beside them. I walk over to them, lowering my gut with each step. Florence, Oliver and Nathan were wearing the same concerned look as the two men. We watched in silence as the red haired man looked helpless. Finally, Florence says to him:
"They're alive, you know." She says with the deepest respect. He nods. Nathan runs back to the pick up.
"There's no room in the car for both of them. How will we take them back?" the man asks the other one.
"I don't know, Poison,"he says. Poison. Party Poison. Something clicks, and I know for sure, these men aren't dangerous... to us.
"We have a pick up truck," I say, "we can treat their wounds too." Party Poison contorts his face into a grateful, but painful smile. He picks up Kobra Kid's body, and flings it over his shoulder. The other man does the same for Jet Star.
"Hurry up, Ghoul," says Party Poison. I have just met the four original Killjoys.