“I’m surprised you’re not wearing a red coat, considering your lineage and all that.” “Please, you Americans and your British insults. They’re nothing but sad. Frankly, I find them quite pathetic. If you were to really come at me, you’d know I hadn’t been laid in years, and you’d call me a fuck-useless tosser, and be done with it. Now piss off, and let’s start the match.” He gallops his horse into the field as Creed looks me over and offers up a smile that’s nothing sort of lascivious. “You’re scary, when you smile like that,” I tell him, but he seems to take it as a compliment
