Wine tasting. No idea what the point of that is. Frank isn't one to appreciate the finer things in life - as long as he thinks there's a 60% chance he won't get food poisoning or any unwanted side effects, he'll swallow it without asking too many questions. He's tasted so many kinds that they've all become more of the same grape slosh by the time he gets to the tail end of the section, hovering close to the kissing booth but obviously much more interested in the merlot than the snogging.
Picking up a bottle, he turns it halfway around and squints at the blurry label. Oh, wait. It might be his vision that's blurry.
Run.
He's more enticed by the 'run' part of the colour run than getting assaulted by various coloured powders, but a run's a run and hey, who knows, Frank might even enjoy himself. Or, well, he will, once all the paperwork's done. He looks frustrated clicking the pen multiple times with his eyebrows furrowed scrawling something down on the lines, probably feeling more stressed doing this than doing his taxes back home.
Huffing a sigh, he almost rips the paper off flipping to the next page.
"The fuck's all this intestinal worms shit?" he mutters to himself, though it sounds like a question he's directing to the person standing next to him.
Frank Castle | OTA
Picking up a bottle, he turns it halfway around and squints at the blurry label. Oh, wait. It might be his vision that's blurry.
Huffing a sigh, he almost rips the paper off flipping to the next page.
"The fuck's all this intestinal worms shit?" he mutters to himself, though it sounds like a question he's directing to the person standing next to him.