Quoted By:
>FEEEED ME SEYMOUR
Alright, alright, easy dumbwaiter solution: don't <span class="mu-i">look</span> at the fucking thing. Turn your back on it. There. Better already.
Of course, turning this direction puts a particularly fat crop of flesh tendrils right in your line of sight, so it's not that much of an improvement. Whatever. At least you've gotten over the shock of them— you'll overcome the steady disgust soon enough. It's not like <span class="mu-i">doing</span> anything to you, or anything at all except pulsating gently.
Your actual problem is that they still blanket the exit door, and you've wrung yourself fairly dry: you're not sure you can repeat the puddling trick a second time in a row. And you're not prying the fucking things off with your bare hands, so— a tool. A weapon. Something slicey or stabby or both. There's got to be <span class="mu-i">something</span> in all this shit, right?
-
Well, yeah. There is. You find it nigh-immediately, because the shelves are neatly sorted, alphabetized and hand-labeled. (You knew Pat was a crazy bitch.) It's all the better, because none of the shit on them makes sense: there's M for Mail (moldering salt-smelling envelopes) near M for Mugs (all chipped, none matching); K for Keys (a big bin, different styles— surely not for these doors?) below C for Currency (everything: loose chit, worn-through bills, barter rounds, even one or two pre-Flood conchs) and a whole shelf of C for Clothing. Which— what the fuck? Why didn't she give you any of this shit instead of a jumpsuit? Why does she <span class="mu-i">have</span> an entire shelf of clothes in the storeroom and not her bedroom? Is she a fucking hoarder? They're all nicely folded and for various sizes and sexes.
You're not in need of Mail or Mugs or Keys or Currency or Clothing, though: you beeline for T-for-Tools. (You're enormously tempted by W-for-Weapons, particularly the several[!] fully intact harpoon guns, but you figure getting caught with one of those would be curtains. Tools you can talk your way out of.) It's a weird assortment— no surprise, you guess— consisting mainly of light, handheld thingamabobs: no heavy wrenches or mallets or anything. The only hammer in the bin looks built for shoes, or some shit. You fish around and come up triumphantly with a sturdy-looking paint scraper. The edge isn't razor-sharp, but the tendrils won't need that. And it's small enough to secrete down your top, or maybe even into your arm. Score.
You make to pivot (<span class="mu-i">away</span> from the dumbwaiter) toward the door, but nearly trip over an inconvenient tendril. "Shit," you mumble, and lift your gaze directly to the shelves of Lester Food— and the half-dozen tendrils looped uselessly around the sacks.
(1/2)
