@jeebys -- GREETER.
He has tears smeared over his face, and that’s nothing new, and the snot bubble that he protectively holds a yubitsume-affected hand over is pretty noisy, really. Kind of like when you blow into a soda.
His name is Akachan o Naki--or crybaby, in Americanish. “Fuck,” he sob-hiccups, smearing the front of his shirt over his face in order to absorb the tears. Knowing Akachan, it’s a case of, like, someone insulting his hairstyle. Or someone told him that human trafficking wasn’t a very humane practice and he was, by proxy of being a human trafficker, a bad, inhumane person. Or he spilled juice on his trousers. (Just kidding, that isn’t juice.)
The man can’t handle criticism.
Smoothing his shirt down over his tattoo-covered stomach, he neatly hides the inked, coiling snake, and sniffles wetly, right in Snafu’s face.
“D-d-d-do you have a t-tissue?” he bawls.
