In an alcove in a street alley, a tan man hammered away at a makeshift desk while cars rushed by in the distance. Every few hits, sparks flew from whatever was on the desk. Off to the side, two black and green arm shields laid. After a few more swings he stopped, wiped some sweat off his brow and brandished his newly mended sword to the camera.
"Man, now that's craftsmanship," he said. "Hello there, I'm Franky. Current leader of Clan Style. Though you probably already know that by now, heh." He sat down. "Okay, I know how this might look, but I like the new direction RHG's gone in. I wouldn't be applying if it wasn't for that, honest."
"Well, that and my clanmates Oxob and Sludgey applying too. If they get accepted, they're gonna need me to watch over 'em!"
He stood up and sat on the workbench. "Besides, we know times are tough. If I can bring some entertainment to people, make their lives a little brighter, I'll be happy. I remember it's something I wanted to do back when I was a little boy in California."
Franky pulled the arm shields up onto the desk and started strapping them on one at a time.
"Imagine that. Me, an entertainer." He chuckled.
"One thing I ask is that nobody gets too hurt. I know this is RHG and all, but I'd rather not see any of my friends in the hospital. Oxob in particular's been there enough already." He tightened the last strap on the shield for his left arm.
"Well, I think that's about it from me," he said. After that, he sat there and stared off into nowhere in particular until the sound of a barking dog jolted him back to the present.
"Wait, is this still running?"
Tape end.