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Your next sight of the Sissy is him standing nakey an' pizzing inna sink.
Huh.
You'd only do that in spite or triumphant spite, never where you sleep or eat.
His clothes are on the floor; several sets worth. Next to them is a tin tub.
The sink he pizzed in is copper-cased on a table of stone, with the sleucer (drain) leading into the wall and out. He pumps a few times to clear off the sink, then hups the tin tub up and pumps it half full.
Then he goes out into the laundry yard with some soap in a big steel mess mug and has a wash from the tin tub.
From what you know, Humies don't usually do this when they have a wash room.
He keeps the bad hand from getting wet; it's still stinging.
When he's in his robe he looks a bit chunky; without the robe you see his arms and thighs are heavy, round. His shoulders looked rounded because he's been going about hunched, head lowered; really they're quite wide. He's got mantitz and gutz, but that's from not trainan recently; you can tell he's not dough all the way down. If the scars on him (mostly sharps; maybe one burn, a patch at the right shoulder and back) mean anything, they tell you dis man can give bizniz.
When he's done, he takes off some Whitey pants and robes hanging on a laundry pole and puts them on straight. His dirty clothes he dunks in the tub, tops up the water, shaves some flakes of hard soap in for lather, and leaves it to soak.
His body wash done he gets in the larder; <span class="mu-i">this</span> is locked.
Then he starts a fire. Not in the scullery, but the laundry yard. Bricks holding up a grill: chicken wire over a segment of broken pigiron fencing. On this he puts his mess mug, the same big steel one he washed himself with, now holding clean water and a mix of tea and herbs, to coct.
Beside the mess mug he sets an iron skillet.
Lard wad goes in, to melt; taters and nunyuns, roughly quartered in the palm, follow; salt smoked pork (fatass, lmao) from a roll of larded cheesecloth, cut to bite size and left to burn; the anus end of black sossij; uneven chops of black rye bread, to soak and sizz at the sides.
The sossij makes your mouth water: beefy heart, blood and liver. Good stuff.
Eats an apple and tomato raw while he waits; a few swiggs out of an ovoid steel flask. You can't smell anything from where you are, but you don't suppose it's wine.
He eats with the same knife he chopped with. Stab, num, stab, num.
You hear some sniffles. It's not the smoke or nunyuns: fat faggit's crying into his food.
Pathetic.
You feel like patting his hand and saying
>Dere dere don't blubbz
>everfin will werkz out, yool zee
>i'lz jez slitz yet froat and take yer fings
>an' all yez trubblz will be ovah
He stops after two or three big sniffles. You hear him.
"I want to hold a sword again. I <span class="mu-s">will</span> hold a sword again."
So the sord's his. Doesn't matter, still a faggit.
When he's done eating he smokes a smoke; not local.
This done he puts the Whitey robe on.
You scarper.
