I just had to stay cool. Zen. No punching in the face. Punching would not be Zen.
Failure happened. The trick was to accept the risk and try anyway.
Long strands of drool stretched from between his fangs and dripped on the pavement, sending a heady scent of jasmine to swirl through the air. Perfumed monster spit. What was the world coming to?
Big bad merc, down with a basic hip toss. In your place I'd be blushing.
What kind of woman greets the Beast Lord with 'here, kitty, kitty'?
Judging by the hard lines of his face and the flat look in his eyes, he'd left the Marines, but the Corps hadn't quite left him.