The challenger is a sight to behold. She probably would have stood out in the line in any case, bein’ the only female-type in our group, though one might have had to look a couple times to notice, as she stood in a habitual slouch. Her hair, however, made her a real showstopper. Cropped to a medium, mane-type length, it was dyed … somethin’ I do not normally speculate on regardin’ a skirt until we is on very close acquaintances, after which time I am too much of a gentleman to share such information with anyone who is not. In this circumstantial, however, I feel free to make said assumption, as hair, whether attached to a male or female-type bod, does not naturally come in that color … or, to be entirely accurate, colors. Stripes of pink, white, blue, and green run across this broad’s head from front to back … and not in subtle tones. These colors glow with electric type vibrancy like they are bein’ fueled by her glower, which would be truly intimidatin’ if it were, perhaps, pasted on a homelier mug … like, say my own. It has been some time since Nunzio and I hung out on the streets, but it is clear the type of punks they are currently breedin’ is a strain mutated noticeably from our early days when “colorful” referred to our language, not our hair!
“Well, well,” the sergeant sez, lickin’ his chops a bit,” what have we here? It seems we are to be a part of the army’s experimental program which is specifically testing the truth in the saying that the only thing meaner than a fighting man of Possilturn is a woman! Now I want all you men to watch your language during training. We have a laaaadyyyy in our midst.”