The first squirt catches Mark by surprise, as it always does. It'd taken a lot faster than expected; a few quick flicks of his wrist, alternating between twists and shakes, and spurts of white shoot from the tip and paint his face and chin into a messy artpiece.

He sits on the floor, dumbstruck by the turn of events, as gravity pulls some down his neck and under the collar of his shirt and other bits drip onto his front. He vaguely thinks he hears Jackson's piercing hyena-like chuckle but it doesn't register in the back of his head. Terrible, Mark thinks. How dare Jackson laugh like he's innocent. The younger is, after all, the reason why he's in this predicament in the first place.

"It's not funny!" Mark goes all out in a fall-out whine, tongue flicking out to catch the drip of white by the corner of his mouth. "If you hadn't insisted on putting mayo in your damn sandwich - not forewarning that we're almost all out, too - I wouldn't have spilt this all over my face!"