"That was fucking horrible!" Montag said as he entered the dark and rather drab room unannounced and most likely uninvited. He took his stance far away from the rest of the group leaning against the wall with his arms crossed around his chest appearing rather haughty.<br/><br/>"You expect us to believe that god awful gore ridden story, where's the substance Katura? The suspense? I was bored listening to that crap from the hallway," Montag chuckled. Then he shrugged as if putting compiling his disdain into a shrewd afterthought. "Then again I don't expect much from the cripple." He pointed. "Your something else you know that?"<br/><br/>He paces the room, scanning the faces peering back at him. He scoffs and then takes his position back at the wall, "Besides your wittle 'accident' you have no real understanding of horror, no clue what sickening things exist beyond your cracker jack box, tales of the crypt, puppets and rainbow reality." He scans the room one last time with his eyes and slides down the wall. his head slumped and his hand dangle loosely from his knees as his body hits the ground. He sits there. His jet-black hair covers his face as he relents. "You have no idea," he repeats with no particular audience in mind.<br/><br/>Earlier that day his father had just returned from work and had put out some of his cigarette buds out on his forehead. His father's drunken stupor had him verbally abusing his promiscuous mother once again to the point of some of the family's dinner plate being flung around the room and one narrowly missing Montag. He didn't realize until that moment how much that had affected him. He choice not to really talk after that and he sat there in the classroom shuffling to find his MP4. He place the bulky headphones that hung around his neck in his ears and began to blast the new Amon Amarth he'd purchased off the internet.