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THE IRON FUCKING BULL (
2015-06-14 08:52 am (UTC)
Whatever, standing on toes and still giving a hug like that is plenty manly.
"Yeaahhh," drawls Bull, shouldering the bag — he'd shoulder Krem, too, if there were a way for that to not be weird, dude looks dead on his feet. Better get some caffiene in him. "I know a place."
The place in question isn't far from the airport, but Bull biked over here so he heads for the long row of motorcycles out front of the carpark. There's a second helmet locked into the chain, and with his bulk he's never had any problems handling the hog with some extra weight, so the luggage isn't a problem either. He tosses Krem the helmet that isn't cut to fit horns. "Safety first," he says, like it's a joke, doing up his own.
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