Oz’ jaw immediately stiffened, transforming a reflexive groan into a noise uncomfortably closer to a squawk.
He tumbled down and to the left, quite unprepared to counteract the formidable pull of his weight. His knees buckled and he was unable to keep his right foot planted. He could not avoid the double catastrophe of having the extended right leg of his $5,000 black pin-striped suit touch the reviled grime of the floor.
He slowly pulled himself up and strategically positioned himself square in front of the mirror. Over his shoulder, he spied the bright red shirt first – then the cape and cowl.
“An... eff-ect-ive intro-d-duct-ion,” he said, intentionally condescending but unintentionally stilted, his tongue an unwilling participant amid the swelling. “But not.... very... b-be-cccom-ing. They... say first im-presss-shions tell a... lot about a per-ssson, Red... Robin.”
Oz paused to make it known that he knew who he was, though he was relatively new in town. Oz surveyed the already deep purple impression on his chin with his off-hand before continuing, “Can-t say... I’m... im-pressed ssssso far. The t-time to t-teach youuu mannn-ers will have to w-wait. What were y-youuu askin’ about? The gun? Yes, well, there are a hundred ways that I *might* have lost it – l-listen, I know you’re new, but choose your words care-fully. I d-do not have time to teach you semantics today either. B-besides, I d-didn’t lose it. Iiin f-fact, I’d l-love to show you... Just open the d-door annnd I’ll be happy to g-get it for you.”