You stammer back, brandishing a chair for self-defense. Gamzee, tall and lanky and gangly, towers over you like a lamp post with an amused grin despite the blood seeping from his nose, mixing with his face paint.

"That was a real motherfucking nice shot." He cackles, holding his wrist to his face. He looks at you weirdly, squeezing his hands like he has them around your neck. "HONK. Is that all you motherfuckin' got? Pretty shit for a pitch foreplay."

“Naw, you know it isn’t.” You smirk, dropping the chair to the ground, the sound echoing in the big empty room. You’d think Gamzee would find it blasphemous to do this in a… juggalo equivalent of a church, but he doesn’t. “Ya still the vice president for those two? Wouldn’t want you to make a speech with a bruised face.” You snicker, knowing it will strike a nerve.

And strike it does. His face immediately sours, darkening with a ferocity you like to bring out in him. “Don’t you speak of those two motherfucking blasphemers!” He roars. “Fake fucking Messiahs. I’ll kill them both, and throw their bodies at the Empress after.” He growls angrily under his breath.

Gamzee lounges, and slams your head against one of the pews. Pain explodes in your skull, and you yelp out. Still, you manage to punch him in the throat in retaliation, and he lets you go. “You got stronger.” He gasps out, holding his neck. “Yeah.” You reply, grinning. “Guess that makes us kismesis, then.” He doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head. “What?” You ask, confused. “We’re always doing this, and you said I got stronger. Isn’t that the point of a kismesis?” He stays silent a few more seconds, then shrugs with a sleazy grin. “Technicalities are too fuckin’ complicated for me, man. We’re just two motherfuckers doing our thing.”