[Poison grins, a jackal flash of white teeth, and cocks their head to one side.]

Oh, you gotta hideout? Gotta fancy place and a fancy plan? Got room in a hideout for a murder wizard who were just makin' noise and burnin' shit down?

[The rhythm of the words is fluid and simultaneously delighted and disdainful, a little too sugary to be sincere, mocking but tinged with the same hard edge that colors everything that Party Poison does.]

[He's got different frequencies, different volumes, but they're all variations on the same insufferable tune.]