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Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh ID:otFvM223 Tue 19 Dec 2023 01:18:12 No.5868987 View View Report

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"Hoo. Good question." Earl sucks air through his teeth. "I don't know if Morris has gotten any word, but 'Licia's skittish to her bones. If she was attacked like that, she's gone and locked herself up in some hidey-hole gods-know-where."

Naturally. "But you're friends with her, so you know where—"

"Haw! No. It's bad fucking luck to blab, she tells me and Morris. Don't think she's so ungrateful she'd never thank you, though, so I'd bet a solid rock or two she'll find ya. Is it urgent at all?"

You'd like to hear about what she knows of Wayne, and of the "Harold," but neither of those will kill you if you wait. Even if you think it's rude to go hide from one's selfless life-saver. "No, I guess..."

"Then give it a few. We'll point her towards ya if she pokes her head up, right? Morris?"

Another nod from Branwen.

It's not what you were hoping for, but it's better than nothing, you suppose. "...Thanks."

"Naw, no big deal at all. Don't mention it. I should be thanking you for hauling me through this shit-show! Sheesh! Don't know what I would've done solo. Let them all get away with it, I guess." Earl sighs. "Well, here. You're a real pal, kid. Shake on it?"

Even unaugmented, his outstretched hand engulfs yours. You do your best to shake, rather than be shaken, but it's basically fruitless. He pumps your arm like he's being paid for it. What do you say? (Richard would know.) "Uh... happy to help? Just doing my job? I'm glad you didn't die...?"

"Har-har-har! Me too!" Earl caps off the handshake by slapping your shoulder. "Well, it's been a good time. Sounds like we might hang around here a little while— see the sights, grab a drink, something like that. If you need me, come find me, okay? I owe you one!"

He and Branwen walk off, leaving you alone in the middle of town, holding a big shrimp. The shrimp waves its tendrils. What now?

Oh. The general store guy. Should you even go in? He seemed crazy. On the other hand, you do have a big shrimp that punches people, so you don't think your life is in any danger. And you don't know if Gil is up or not, still, so maybe you ought to check it out. Yeah. Maybe it's not even anything, and he's just your secret biggest fan? *Somebody* has to be your secret biggest fan. That makes a lot of sense, in your opinion— you'll go with that.

The bell jingles as you push the general store's door open. "Oh fuck!" says the general store guy, immediately. "You're back! I didn't think—"

"Um, yes. I am returneth! And I have a mantis, so don't even think about luring me into the back room and murdering me! It won't work. You'll just get punched by a big shrimp, and then I'll stab you with my sword, which is on fire, by the way, and it'll all be really sad and humiliating for you."

The guy is leaning way back in his chair. "I— I wasn't going to lure you—"

(2/3)

Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh

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Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh ID:HXAec4CG Sun 15 Oct 2023 04:04:56 No.5796139 View View Report

Quoted By:

>[ELSEWHERE]
>[ELSEWHEN]

Your name is ROSCOE PRATER, but the ruder type of out-of-towners know you as "that jerk who runs the general store." Your opinion is, you'd be a little nicer if they took the 10 seconds to learn your name, but that's out-of-towners for you. No common decency.

You'll own the thing about the general store, though— really, you own the whole store. (That's a joke. Laugh.) Really, you own it, operate it, organize it, stock it, and scrub it down every week, so the algae and the limpets can't creep in and ruin the product. You sleep in the back room. You'd say it's your job, but nobody's employing you. You'd say it's a living, but you've been dead or thereabouts for 15 years or thereabouts and don't turn a profit anyhow. It sure isn't your calling, if you ever had one of those.

But it's what you do, and it keeps you on a schedule and in a rhythm and in constant contact with the neighbors, and Lindew's Landing would be a shit-ass excuse for a hamlet if it didn't even have a store. (And guess what: before you came along, it didn't.) You provide a public service for a couple dozen people. That's nothing to sneeze at.

On dreary days like these, though, it's hard to feel it. When the baseboards have been scoured, the racks reshuffled, this week's delivery delayed, and nobody's come in since early morning, it's all you can do not to bolt the door and go get a stiff drink. (<span class="mu-i">Jacques</span> never has a dreary day.) But you're that jerk who runs the general store, and if you don't run the general store, you're just a jerk.

Your small but exceptionally tidy store lies before you. You sit in an understuffed chair behind the store counter, which holds a scale for the chit (empty) and a half-played game of solitaire (abandoned 10 minutes ago). You're a grown-ass man who can entertain himself. Wat do?

>[1] You haven't freshened up the memorial yet. Do that. There's been too many dead recently.
>[2] Today's the day the weekly bulletin gets sent around, typically, but nobody's come in to drop it off yet. See if it's been left outside.
>[3] Years ago, somebody taught you how to read fortunes in a pack of cards. You don't remember that much anymore, and you don't place a lot of stock in it, but you're also bored as shit and have a pack of cards.
>[4] Write-in? (Subject to veto.)

Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh

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Bathic !!1oQZB1czRDh ID:HXAec4CG Sun 15 Oct 2023 04:03:46 No.5796137 View View Report

Quoted By:

>[ELSEWHERE]
>[ELSEWHEN]

Your name is ROSCOE PRATER, but the ruder type of out-of-towners know you as "that jerk who runs the general store." Your opinion is, you'd be a little nicer if they took the 10 seconds to learn your name, but that's out-of-towners for you. No common decency.

You'll own the thing about the general store, though— really, you own the whole store. (That's a joke. Laugh.) Really, you own it, operate it, organize it, stock it, and scrub it down every week, so the algae and the limpets can't creep in and ruin the product. You sleep in the back room. You'd say it's your job, but nobody's employing you. You'd say it's a living, but you've been dead or thereabouts for 15 years or thereabouts and don't turn a profit anyhow. It sure isn't your calling, if you ever had one of those.

But it's what you do, and it keeps you on a schedule and in a rhythm and in constant contact with the neighbors, and Lindew's Landing would be a shit-ass excuse for a hamlet if it didn't even have a store. (And guess what: before you came along, it didn't.) You provide a public service for a couple dozen people. That's nothing to sneeze at.

On dreary days like these, though, it's hard to feel it. When the baseboards have been scoured, the racks reshuffled, this week's delivery delayed, and nobody's come in since early morning, it's all you can do not to bolt the door and go get a stiff drink. (<span class="mu-i">Jacques never has a dreary day.) But you're that jerk who runs the general store, and if you don't run the general store, you're just a jerk.

Your small but exceptionally tidy store lies before you. You sit in an understuffed chair behind the store counter, which holds a scale for the chit (empty) and a half-played game of solitaire (abandoned 10 minutes ago). You're a grown-ass man who can entertain himself. Wat do?

>[1] You haven't freshened up the memorial yet. Do that. There's been too many dead recently.
>[2] Today's the day the weekly bulletin gets sent around, typically, but nobody's come in to drop it off yet. See if it's been left outside.
>[3] Years ago, somebody taught you how to read fortunes in a pack of cards. You don't remember that much anymore, and you don't place a lot of stock in it, but you're also bored as shit and have a pack of cards.
>[4] Write-in? (Subject to veto.)</span>

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