Wukong's grin didn't just hold; it widened into something utterly insolent. He leaned on his staff as if it were a walking stick, examining Mephisto from head to toe like a farmer inspecting a strange bug.
"Mephisto?" he echoed, scratching his ear with his free hand. "Sounds like a sneeze. You sure that's your name? Not something like 'Stuck-Up Fancy-Pants' or 'Lord of the Really Bad Haircut'? Because, honestly," he gestured with his chin at Mephisto's slicked-back hair, "it looks like a wet rat sat on your head."
Mephisto's smile remained, but it became a thin, strained line. The temperature dropped another few degrees. "You seek to provoke me with infantile prattle. It is beneath my notice."
"Oh, it's beneath you, is it?" Wukong cackled. "Is that why you're standing in the mud? Couldn't your fancy boots find a nicer puddle to step in? This is a bit low-rent for a king, don't you think?"
