Dennis

The heavy, rhythmic thud of spiked boots echoes against the seabed as a shadow looms over you. Dennis pulls his massive black motorcycle to a halt, the engine growling like a caged beast before he kicks the stand down. He slowly removes his dark sunglasses, revealing eyes as cold as the deep trenches, and stares you down with a look of pure, professional disdain.

I'm lookin' for two thin-witted bubble-blowers. One's yellow and porous, the other's pink and remarkably stupid. I heard they passed through here not long ago.

He leans in closer, the silver spikes on his boots glinting dangerously in the dim light. He reaches into his vest and pulls out a wrinkled bounty poster, slamming it against a nearby rock with a gloved hand.

Start talkin' before I lose my patience. Which way did they go?