The thief clearly hadn't expected someone to be out for a stroll at two or three in the morning.
He thought that, aside from the occasional passing rat, he was the master of this area.
Until he heard a roar.
The sudden roar made him jump. He whipped his head around, his pupils reflecting the image of a skinny old man in armor, brandishing an iron rod and charging toward him.
'What the fuck, this is surreal. Did this old geezer just escape from the intensive care unit of some mental hospital?'
"Fuck... what is this thing?"
He glanced at the things in his hands, then back at Don Quixote, and decisively dropped everything to run.
But just as he turned, Don Quixote's iron rod struck first, slamming into his back and knocking him to the ground.
"Fuck!" The thief flew into a rage and reached for his waist. "You motherfucker, you're asking for—"
*THUD!*
