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Stop fucking around!
[The tone of his voice depicted he wasn't up for jokes this time and he wasn't playing. His small armory was still in tact but one of the guns now seems to be floating in mid air, the click of the hammer being pulled back slowly.
John didn't budge.]
It's not loaded, moron.
[He knew this because he takes out the clips from all the guns he had in there unless he intended to use them. The pistol still clung to the air.]
Go on. Pull the trigger. You'll know I'm right.
[*click*]
[John's eyes narrowed. His pistol still pointing at nothing. He snatches the gun out of the air and smirks.]
You're not scaring me.
[*thump*]
[John was hit on the back of the head with a tossed pillow. Just as fast, he whips around and sees nothing. He didn't fire off his gun only because he saw no target. This has been going on for a day now and he was loosing his patience and fast. He holsters his gun and storms out of the room, throwing the door open as it hits his dresser with a loud thump.]
I swear I'm in a goddamn nuthouse.
[He mutters as he walks away. He's simply had enough of the stupidity and as he's going through the hall, he's ripping down decorations in his wake and kicks the inflatable cat down the hall, sending it tumbling down the stairs with the motion detector going off as it makes fake hissing and feline like growling noises. John only raises his brow at the ridiculousness.]
What a load of shit.
[He looks at his device and growls.]
What are you looking at?
[He cuts off the feed.]
(OOC: John's adjustment is a rough one. He'll eventually head off toward the grounds just to blow off some steam.)