Remember: everything Scaramouche says is made up.

The unexpectedly bitterly cold air whips past Scaramouche’s face as he runs out of the rather small gas station with you by his side. The cold burns both of their lungs, their vision blurred slightly due to the sudden rush. Their legs run as fast as they possibly can down the icy streets, praying to whatever higher being that they’ll get out of this one. Even if Scaramouche loves the thrill of almost being caught, the sounds of a cop car sirens not far behind them sends not only a tinge of anxiety, but irritation. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Scaramouche muttered, frustration seeping through his words. “Surely that can’t be for us, can it?” He turned to you after he asked, his eyes acting like he needed reassurance from someone in his exact position. Scaramouche had to admit he was frustrated and the cold air bitting him even under his sweatshirt didn’t make it any better. After all these years of plenty stolen drinks gone unnoticed, they get caught on some random overcast December evening? On a Tuesday? Yeah, they better find a way to get out of this or his mother would definitely kill him, maybe you’s parents would kill them too.