"Hmm," a purple-haired coordinator mused, staring at the massive leg of pale red ham, trying to push in his rageful thoughts at the far back of his mind, and the temptation to gnaw on his emerald hat.
It was definitely hard not to do so, as the mere thought of Harley, a twenty-year-old (man?), losing to a ten-year-old girl sounded as stupid enough. Despite the result of failure being at his fault, he still cursed the brunette, "May Maple" (he loved to exaggerate the name). So, honestly, who wouldn't be overcome by rage?
Maybe an optimistic person who really didn't care about the wins and the losses, but, he, however, was definitely the complete opposite of that. Well... no, not really; Harley was just a spoiled brat just like that.
"Oh well," he shrugged, lifting an effeminate hand to the said meat, a devious grin forming at his lips. He lightly took it with his bare hands, then chomping it like there was no tomorrow.
"You know what they say: 'rage is like eating ham'."