With Gash’s help, Graffiti got the members to move again. They hopped out of the doorway that led to the balcony above the clock’s face.

Nowhere else within the heart of the city had such a view of Ayzabin. The hooligans towered over sister skyscrapers, and the creatures below were of minuscule spots in a blitz of lights and music. The heat blew over the top of the jagged mountains walling out the desert to the west, cooking the hooligans. To make matters worse, behind the castle, the gnarly “haunted” forest of striped trees hiding that narrow lake to the east pumped in the humidity, making the muggy heat almost unbearable.

But who cares about that? There's dastardly deeds to undertake!

Though Gash has his questionable methods and motives, even Graffiti had to admit that the vampire gets work done. He and a gargoyle member, who's been waiting for them outside, had already connected a zipline from the base of the clock to another skyscraper below. On Graffiti's word, the hooligans stood themselves on specific spots atop the clock. They secured themselves in makeshift harnesses of stolen ropes. They readied their brushes for painting and fruits for smearing. Graffiti’s heart pumped a fast tempo. He couldn’t help but smile deviously, a mad smile of one who, after so many hardships and pitfalls, had finally reached his ultimate goal. He overlooked the city of Ayzabin, settled in an orange haze below the cloud-less, blue night above.

“At long last,” he growled to himself with the crazy eyes of a ravenous hyena. “Revenge. Revenge for everything those damned Royals have done to us all." He hissed a maniacal laugh. "It’s time for this city awaken!”

“At your word, kid!” Gash yelled out.

Graffiti gave the signal.

All jumped.

Within seconds, the hooligans ran onto the clock's surface towards their designated spots. They slapped on premeditated shapes of colorful paints of highlight blues, blacks, greens, pinks--name a color, it’s on there. All the while, Graffiti barked out orders: "You're using the wrong color, Fish Boy!" "Don't let the paint drip!" "Hey, hey, Fur-Mat, you made your section too small!"

"We're not making a masterpiece, Graffiti!" Gash yelled back. "Fix it yourself! Everyone. Finish up and go!"

As quickly they made their marks, the members landed on the base of the clock, cut their harnesses, and dashed for the zip line. They zipped on down with their towels, leaving behind a fragmented portrait looking more like misarranged stained glass. Graffiti, Gash, and those hapless paint grubs soon became the only ones left. Those paint grubs were basically living spray paint cans--an art medium Graffiti specialized in. I mean, come on, he didn’t get his nickname “Graffiti” for nothing.

Balancing the crate on the base of the clock, he and Gash quickly ripped off its top. Graffiti then fearlessly ran back up the face of the clock, holding tight onto his rope. He lent out a hand to Gash, yelling, “Green!” Gash grabbed the green paint grub from its buddies and, much to its horror, threw the grub up to Graffiti. Graffiti caught it by its body, shook it up, and pressed down on its head, forcing green paint to spray out of its four conjoining eyes. He then ran across the clock’s surface, filling in the cracks and combining the drawn shapes into legible writing. Every once in a while, he would use up the paint within the grub’s eyes. In which case, he would bark for another color and would throw the grub down to Gash in exchange for another.

The clueless monsters way down on the streets partied too hard to see that their "precious clock" (or their "convenient clock," or their "good-for-nothing round thing that rings annoying sounds every single stinkin’ hour") was in the process of being plastered with colorful spray paint.