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The whole time you talk you notice the <span class="mu-i">fing</span> doesn't breathe, and the slow sway of the tatters it is wearing is <span class="mu-i">not</span> the wind.
If you were any closer to dat creepy muvva and it so much as turn to look , you might have lost your nerve and just shanked it out of instinct.
But you finish your report. It doesn't move the whole time.
Seafood closes his eyes, lays back to process.
"Mo Ao."
<span class="mu-i">Lord.</span>
You shiver from it. There's no voice, just an 'orful feelen goin fru the inners of yer spine.
"Take off your Mute Garb (mo4 yi1)."
The <span class="mu-i">fing</span> draws back the part of the bedsheet covering its head, and the rest of it starts disappearing; shrinking into the gaps between bones and joints, looks like, but you're not sure, since this is creepy shit.
Underneath is Bad Ugly, a fuggen 'orful eyefull, but somehow not even half as bad as with the bedsheet on.
It smokes a little, all over; where dots of direct sunlight touch it the smoking is tripled.
"How does it feel, without the Mute Garb."
<span class="mu-i">Uncomfortable.
Painful.</span>
"Mm. Tudi."
"Yas Sweetfuds."
"Mo Ao."
<span class="mu-i">Lord.</span>
"Fight."
