Alright. This kidnapping thing?
Really getting old.
[The video feed cuts on to reveal Stiles sitting in a chair, drumming his fingers against the edge of the table enough that you can faintly hear the noise in the background; he's nodding his head, teeth gritted together. There's obvious irritation on his face, but despite the whole being-kidnapped-to-a-foreign-island-thing, he doesn't look too scared. ]
I think I preferred Grandpa Crazypants to this. At least he just socked me in the face a time or six instead of putting me in a dress and calling me little red riding hood. Which, by the way, is probably the worst joke in the history of all jokes and you should be ashamed of yourself, and that's not even counting the fact that this is Michael Jackson levels of absolutely freakin' creepy.
[Okay, now he looks a little more freaked out, and he flails his arms at the screen, unable to contain the amount of What The Actual Hell in his words. Stiles looks away and back again, bouncing his knees. ]
There's supposed to be a full moon tonight in, you know, Beacon Hills, and believe me, as glad as I am to be in mortal danger from yet another thing instead of the one I actually know how to handle, I need to get home. So let's get the pain, agony, et cetera out of the way, I'm not telling you and your awful sense of humor anything, especially when I'm still sitting here sans pants.
[He stares at the feed for a moment longer--there's some unintelligible grumbling before he shuts it off.]