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Raccoons, huh?
Scanning the remains of <span class="mu-r">TIM’S INNER SANCTUM</span> for any sign of your feral friend, it dawns on you that she might be going through similar withdrawals as you right about now. Still, Lil’ Stanley might just be the edge you need… and boy could you use one!
If he’s a trapper, you continue in a measured tone, you’re betting he’s been… ATTACKED BY RACCOONS a lot!
“Sure, you get a nip or two the first few trips out.” Boris shrugs, not picking up on your extremely clumsy use of subtext, “Got a nasty bite on my leg on my first outing, but hey–you should see the <span class="mu-i">OTHER</span> guy!”
Lifting the pant leg of his coveralls, you’re treated to a small, but wicked scar running up and down Boris’ thigh. You’d laugh if you weren’t hurting so much!
“But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from trapping, Stannie, it’s that it doesn’t matter what trap you use, weapon you take, or game you hunt…”
Covering his scar once more, the janitor takes a few steps away to look across the city. “The most important thing is <span class="mu-s">PATIENCE.</span> Patience can cure all wounds, Stan. Kill all foes, and yes…”
He turns to look your way with an even bigger smile. “It can even get you anything your heart desires.”
Fan<span class="mu-i">TAS</span>tic, you groan, but why exactly <span class="mu-i">IS</span> he doing this, huh? You ask as you spot a flash of movement amongst the bony rubble and try not to focus on it too much! Let me guess: for his <span class="mu-i">MOMMY’S</span> sake?
“Figured you’d bring her up.” He replies with an unusual amount of venom in his voice. “But you’re right–I never really explained, did I? Why we’re here? And I’m assuming Sunny isn’t in any condition to tell you anything anymore, right?”
You dunno, you scoff–try calling the bitch and find out!
“I’ll take your word for it.” Snorts Boris as he resumes pacing along the ledge with his <span class="mu-r">REVOLVER</span> drawn. “You never really liked me, did you, Stan?”
Screw it. You respond to the question with a round of applause that sends a parade of aches up and down your arms! There it is, you croak–he FINALLY GETS IT! Thread 19, everybody!
“Well shoot,” scoffs the janitor in mock disbelief, “I guess that’s a no, huh?”
That’s right, ASSHOLE!
Your clarification is met with another <span class="mu-r">MOP</span> to the head!
“For the record:” He continues, sheathing the metal cleaning tool in his belt once more, “The feeling’s <span class="mu-i">mutual</span>.”
<span class="mu-i">Good</span>, you hiss as you spit a gob of blood onto the floor!
>CONTD.
