Always make sure your hazmat suit is correctly fitted, before entering the hazard zone.
*Launches self into the dying sun.*
:as F-M goes to leap, the offending appendage sinks down to his feet, weighing him down and preventing the jump:
:sitting on his lounge, sipping liquor:
Oh, I'm afraid it won't be that easy, my friend. There are only a few avenues of escape.
:snaps fingers. Jambi approaches F-M with a covered platter. He lifts the silver lid to reveal a gilded blade, wickedly honed on one side, serrated on the other:
For you. Do what you feel you must.
:the bulbous deformity slithers back up to F-M's groin:
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:F-M mutilates what, for all intents and purposes, are it's own genitals, until they are a bloody ruin. The pain is... not inconsiderable:
:just when the job seems finished, the gobbets begin to reform until F-M is once against possessed of a grotesquely enlarged flesh-purse:
:sips: I see the impulse, but your technique is somewhat lacking. Grasp firmly by the base and then slice or saw it off in one go. With your scaly hide, I fear it will be the latter.
Once this is done, I would advise getting away from it without threatening it or otherwise attracting its attention: you don't want to make it angry. Back away slowly, and, for the love of whatever you find interesting: do not turn your back on it.
:drains glass, hands it to Jambi absently: Or do. Either way it will be fun to watch.
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*Interpretive trombone noises*
Figures, whenever Comte comes around he somehow derails everything.
You sir, and I use that word loosely, are an ill guest.
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Of course not. You are the Lord of the Castle, not a guest.
*Follows GoatToucher's advice.*
:the giant scrotum, now covered in shark skin and bearing a total of four oversized testicles, rolls over to the Compte, up his trouser leg, and settles in to an unhealthy crotch bulge that tears the front of his pants completely away:
TUESDAY.
EVER.
Yes, it is, as I'm afraid that Emphy wants it back.
Except those carried by his deadly rival, Milk-Fachovitz!
Fish-Milkshake?
...Brings all the cod to the yard.
‘Cause it’s better than yorn.
Dab right.
I can tench you, but I'll have to chub.
Is this a bad time to mention that I have emphysema?
In your scrotum?
:take gilded opera glasses from an offered tray, peering at F-M's nethers:
Fascinating...
This conversation is making me testy.
You're making testy calls.
Why wye?
*Softly plays Beautiful Lullabyes*
resists
*Ripples pecs*
Takes control of body the moment Count Reiner sinks his teeth.
Really Count, a hickey?
While you were going to parties and having pre-martial sex, I studied the multi-barrel halfling howitzer.
Floop-Doopula Must Not Fall!
Can't hardly blame her.
She does take after her father.
Boss, what key is this intergalactic campaign of conquest in?
D#, so you'll need the Sqwerketti Bellisimata 300 with the grey mother-of-pearl inlays and heat-seeking asparagus spears.
Or a big bucket of water.
Gives Pulg’s Fairy Accordion Band a big bucket of water.
|
On the plus side, now that Floop-Doopula is no more, you won't have to deal with any vampiric beings (not actual vampires mind you) from that galaxy. Especially all those nasty skittermanders!
And hey, Floop-Doopula-Proopula is still around! So Pulg can still harvest that peanut butter that he uses to make trombones.
Count, remember when the best music was played on a Sousexflooderhoofington?
The Sousexflooderhoofington is yesterday's news - this is the Age of the Bongo.