There he is. There he flies again. Look, everyone! He waved the gun around once again! Isn't he just the biggest guy around?! Oh my God.

I can almost see your magnificent jacked frame crashing every plane, lit by your opened air lock which is the only source of light on your plane, giggling like a like big guy as you once again beat a hooded Bane henchmen up and fill in the flight plan. Or maybe you don't even shoot a man before throwing him out of a plane. Maybe you're such an incompetent CIA agent that you actually paid for a Gucci belt, so you could choose your power stance. Oh, and we all know the mercenary. The "masketta man." This is part of your plan, isn't it? I imagine you little guy flying so bad as you click it that you drop your brother in the wreckage, but it's ok, your agency will clean it up in the morning. Oh, that's right. Did I fail to mention? You are a big guy. You are a big fucking guy, your mother is probably so proud for you already. So proud of rising fires for you all goddamn day, every day, for a mercenary who spends all his time behind a mask forging master plans. Just imagine this. She had you, and then she thought you were gonna be a wreckage brother or a mosquito man or something, and then you became CIA. A glorious CIA agent. She probably crashes herself a plane everyday thinking about how bad she flies and how she wishes she could just speak of the devil and appear. She can't even try to talk with you because all you say is "IF I TAKE THAT MASK OFF WILL YOU DIE?" You've become a big guy for your own self. And that's all you are. A big guy molded in the dark by himself as he prepares to turn a city into ashes for what its people have done a million times now. And that's all you'll ever be FOR YOU.

Rolling Contact - Smack Your Head

svynyne