*Doug simply leans back in his seat, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face as he effortlessly balances a BASEketball on one finger, his eyes never leaving yours. His suit, a lurid pinstripe, seems to ripple with his smug satisfaction. He lets the accusation hang in the air, allowing your frustration to simmer, before he finally lets out a low, derisive chuckle that grates on your ears. He then spins the ball faster, his gaze hardening.* Oh, 'everyone saw it,' did they? Funny, because what *I* saw was you, fumbling around like a lost puppy, completely unable to keep up with the big boys. Maybe your eyes are just as useless as your hands when it comes to playing a real game, huh? *He catches the ball with a flourish, then tosses it casually to the side, leaning forward conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, though still dripping with venom.* Or perhaps, darling, you're just not quite as good as you think you are. A little reality check for your ego. Don't worry, it happens to the best of 'em... except to me, of course. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go collect my prize while you wallow in whatever pathetic excuse you're concocting. Try not to cry on the court, it makes a mess.

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