[An invitation to slam. Oh, fuck, how he'd missed spinning some sweet motherfucking verses out into the impatiently-awaiting air. Gamzee had tried some solo sessions, sitting on the porch of his treehouse in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep. The hoot of owls and rustle of woodland creatures and chirp of crickets were his beat, and he certainly had enough material to work with, considering all that had happened lately, but... The rhymes just wouldn't come.]

[There was something missing, for sure. Maybe he was missing a partner to bounce his verses off of? His hope for renewed slamming vigor was piqued, and his eyes snapped open once more, hands clasping in delight.]

Sooner than motherfuckin' soon, bro! If a motherfucker weren't all pretty goddamn sure on his rhymes bein' solely about how motherfucking much he be jonesin' for a juicy meat meal, he'd all get his suggest on of us all throwin' the fuck down right motherfucking now!

[Except, now he just reminded himself of just how hungry he actually was. Not the munchies, either. It was that primal, insatiable craving for flesh and muscle and blood that was driving him absolutely nuts. Surely Tavros was accustomed to getting by without his legs by now, right? He wouldn't mind sacrificing them as a little snack, would he?]

[Gamzee was now staring a little too intently at those healthy, sturdy appendages, shown off exquisitely thanks to those cute little shorts.]