1. Home
  2. Sigil

Sigil Member

Literary Hatchetman

STATUS: Malfunctioning Space Toilet (favorite death post in RPG) : roleplayerguild.com/posts/4… 7 yrs ago
Avatar of Sigil

Status

Recent Statuses

7 yrs ago
Current Malfunctioning Space Toilet (favorite death post in RPG) : roleplayerguild.com/posts/4…
4 likes
9 yrs ago
Example of a "Character Flaw": roleplayerguild.com/posts/32..
1 like

Bio





"Character Flaw"

Keystone's Daydream

Checking for Mental Intrusion

The Power Of Pain Compels You

The Greater Good

Burial & Origin of James Mandingo Grady



Most Recent Posts

In 🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Vladimir Alexandrov

Location: Gretna Green, Church
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), English, Mamushka


Flipping and tumbling, tumbling and flipping, thus began the acrobatic bounding of The Great Bazhooli committing to motion that which sung out from the noble breast of all Rusyn Trained warriors of light. Yes, the Mamushka was strong with Vladimir. Not too strong right that second, as if he had truly been affected by the powerful blow of the fell and fetid creature, be it only a temporary instance of timing. The grace and balance of Vlad was enough to have him retain the ability to traverse the distance from his landing spot to the side of the altar, though without opportunity to hurl pointed fragments of (possibly) sanctified wood at the creature, nor the dramatic pauses for proper levies of insult.

Perhaps that last part was for the best, considering the formidable job already being pounded into the creature by the women of varying Trained sources. Vladimir was happy enough to have the Circus represented among this number. And he had done his part, identifying something potentially useful or exploitable in the future, though it gave him a shudder to consider having to deal with something like this in the future. Were he a very lucky man, this thing was unique and it was being handled. Nevertheless, fortune favors the prepared. The gallant and artistic steps, flips, and cavorts of the strange Russian man finally found him at the the side of the church's altar, one hand bearing a blade and one hovering over a second, awaiting chance to plunge it into his foe or, in the event of Constantin's vision manifesting in the proper direction, giving the evil thing a semi-proper blessing. How he did wish the redheaded lady-knight was still around for this piece of the puzzle.
In 🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1 → 5 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Dr. Swamp
≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎
Location: Shadowell Manor: Attic (Laboratory -> Laboratory Stairs)
Skills: Intelligence
Hit Points: 2
≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎


Dr. Swamp nodded toward Amaranthine in a conciliatory manner. His own contributions to society came in the form of scholarly pursuits; just as she had many talents that he did not, he had his own ways and methods about him. All the same, the curiosity expressed earlier about the laboratory had not been sated. Whomever the master of this place was, he or she was able to accrue works of knowledge unparalleled to his experience. Possibly to anyone else's experience, either, so far as he knew. Swamp's eyes went to the table he had been working upon, noting its construction and details of its workmanship, then comparing it to the other furnishings. He noted the papers and noted the tools, took a glance at anything with lettering upon it. After a moment he stopped, straightened, and proclaimed, "This is getting more interesting, Chanteuse."

"Indeed, indeed it has been some time..." agreed Swamp. Longer than he would have thought the houseman would have been away, but apparently their presence in this place wasn't as loathsome a prospect as he imagined it might be, all things considered. It further reinforced his observations from the room.

All of that aside, now that Amaranthine had mentioned it, it was getting colder in this room. Moreso than he preferred, especially with the amount of blood he had already been deprived of so far that evening. It was curious that he didn't fully notice that before "Yes. Perhaps we should. The lab coats that we procured should give us some additional protection, as will this lamp," he surmised, holding the device aloft. "Though I believe we would fare better in more insulated environs. I recommend the stairwell behind Door Number One," he said, walking to the first door they had opened after Quinton had left. "I doubt that we can get anything more from the Lord's remains nor the room itself." But that library... Swamp was not done with this place yet. For now, for his sake as well as the Chanteuse's, he had to leave it be.
In 🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
James Grady
Location: Tunnels (Cairo, Egypt: October 6th, 1924)
Skills: Peccary Form


Oh, the wonder of piggy senses. Sometimes, it felt like being psychic. Oh sure, James figured that having a porcine sense of smell would be more of a liability than an asset in a subway. Or anywhere near a public restroom. Or near a water treatment plant. Okay, so that wasn't the point. This wasn't the first time that he'd turned into a boar, obviously, but it was the first time that he'd taken on a rider. The combination worked for him, too. Andromeda wasn't so tall as to shift his center of gravity much, and if she leaned forward while she held on, speed could be comfortably reached. James couldn't imagine doing this with someone as large as Gilbert, for instance. He'd be one low bridge away from testing his claims of immortality. It'd be funny, though.

As they made their way down through the corridors, James gave the occasional chuff or snort, though remained silent for long stretches at a time except for the small, regular clacking sounds of his hooves upon the stone beneath them. On the occasions when he did make an audible noise, it was usually preceded with a pause and sniff at the air, a perk of his ears, or a sweeping motion of his snout upon the ground as if detecting something and trying to suss out what it might be. It was probably a good thing, considering the nature of the haze around them and his new, lower eye level thanks to his scrofal physiology.

It was the smell of sulphur that caught his attention first. It was slight, possibly something from the fire, but as they continued it got stronger. By the time they had gotten to where both Emendators agreed was the place, it was almost overwhelming to his porcine senses. It was probably for the best that The Watch insisted that he shift back to his charming and overly handsome (just ask him) human form, considering.

James gave a little shimmy, as he said that he would, before reverting from Wild Boar to Domestic Blackneck. His first act as a human was to give a light cough and say, "Mmm, now Miss Andy? Next time you get to ridin' me, grip with them knees more, k? Way you was grindin' them heels bout had me..." He stopped, taking a glance around with the sudden understanding of one possible translation of his words, be it without context. "Oh, fuck all-a y'all," he whispered, loud enough to be heard by everyone. He wanted to say more, maybe even some form of apology to Andromeda, but his attention was suddenly snapped away by the wafting of voices on the air. He recognized three of them.

He cracked a smile upon hearing Nancy giving someone the business. Another Emendator in their midst would be awesome.

He looked highly confused but suddenly mirthful at the gravelly and unmistakable voice of a serious badass he knew in life. If he was correct, he had a LOT more questions than answers.

And he was purely overjoyed to hear the sound of his good friend and fellow troublemaker, thought lost to them, bitching about SCHRODY. Though there was a smaller puzzle there. He had yet to get a straight answer about that cat. Was he with them? But to hell with the cat - Alicia hadn't been taken up, or whatever the hell they called it. And she was with her father, possibly? Stranger things had happened. Twelve seconds ago he was a boar, for instance.

"Well, hot damn..." he marveled, anxious to see what was going to happen next. One thing he needed to address first, though. Okay, second. The hog riding advice already came first. But second! "Hey um... Anybody else smell sulphur? Like, lots of it, burnin'? Or it that a oinky thang?"

Gilbert Summers
Location: Tunnels (Cairo, Egypt: October 6th, 1924)
Skills: History, Observation


Gilbert generally accepted that this was, indeed, the way the needed to go. He also agreed with his colleague and fellow Emendator that this was also, indeed, where they had to be when he made mention of it. And sure enough, the tunnels all lined up with this fact, from the tiny indicators intrinsic to the tunnels themselves to his own memory of them, compared to his memory of the city of Cairo, above. Emendator GPS, if you will, functioning properly from knowledge of where they started, how long they had traveled, and cues from the tunnels themselves. There was only one problem with the whole situation, but it was massive.

He stopped underneath the entrance, an odd look on his face. Gilbert took in a deep breath, intent on explaining his foreboding feeling when James abruptly turned back into James and addressed Andromeda, and then the rest of the group with an imperative that, if taken followed literally, Gil would be hard pressed to look anyone present in the eye ever again. But he listened. He listened to the voices that manifested suddenly, processing those familiar to him giving a smile at hearing Nancy and Alicia. If all went well, it was possible that they were getting reinforced, though the manner of its arrival had him at a loss. As he had mentioned before, this was new territory for him. It was very rare that he got to say that. Very.

When James mentioned the smell of sulphur, Gilbert immediately stiffened up. He drew his Winchester rifle from his back and looked glanced about his surroundings. "That might be a bigger problem than what concerns me, Mr. Grady, though I will speak mine anyway: We are not under the Qasr El Nil Armory, nor the barracks at all. We are in the right place. The Barracks are not here." This would ordinarily be the time that he made some sort of comment about the situation, saying that it was very curious or fascinating, filling him with a sense of wonder at the natural and/or supernatural world. Not this time, not in the field with new Paradoxes among them, not with the scent of sulphur in the air, and not with the uncertainty of hearing voices of the unfamiliar mixed with voices of the supposed dead. He cast an eye upward, then turned attention above them all with an almost studious look. "And did anyone else notice that the ceiling is disappearing?"
In 🦄 Deeper Than The Sands - Merged With T.S. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Reginald Keystone


Location: Athribis (Underground)
Skills: Observation


Senility is a horrible thing, especially in one who had lived a life as momentous as the Lord Major Reginald I. Keystone. Indeed, the wondrous and varied things that the man had experienced in both his long career as a frontline officer, and later a Knight of the Skies in the service of King and Country; not to mention the wealth of education stored underneath his cap and the nobility bred into him as a member of the Aristocracy. Throughout his time serving in the African Campaigns of the last century and start of this one, he was exposed to the wisdoms of the native peoples there. One such pearl he'd heard oft quoted but never fully appreciated the meaning thereof until this very second was "When an old man dies, a library burns to the ground." It seemed to Reginald that, instead of his library burning down, the books might have been checked out in huge stacks and simply never returned, leaving him with an embittered old soul inside who kept constantly telling visitors to "shush!", despite their best efforts to help.

To wit, after a brief exchange with their more increasingly combative Gene resulting in a bit of a saliva-based faux pas, Reginald reached for his pocket handkerchief. He was a gentleman after all, more important a concept in the face of adversity than in times of ease. Before his hand fully clasped the item in question within his pocket, Reginald started to hear voices. He'd heard of people with this difficulty. I was more common in the Service than many were led to believe, some instances horrifyingly bad and others completely benign. Even helpful. But the good Lord Major was pretty sure that any voice featuring his late nephew, now apparently dead twice (and burnt to a crisp to boot), was not a symptom of decent mental stability.

Reginald forced his mind to make recollections of things from the past, long ago and much more recently, to ensure that his brain was still functioning as it should. He even ran a couple of mathematical equations common to engineering with random numbers that popped into his head. Memory was fine, reasoning was fine, he seemed to have a grasp on reality. The problem was, reality didn't quite have the same firm hold upon him. The Lord Major perked an eyebrow up, twitching his vision toward the ceiling. "I say," he said in quiet voice, regarding the gradual fading away of the stone and earth above them, "...it might be coming time for me to retire..." Such a thing was a anathema to the Lord Major. Retirement was for those who had give up the possibility of dying in glorious service. Or those who had become more a danger to his troop than he had a right to be.

The attempt at gathering the kerchief was halted, instead his hand found the flask in his pocket. With practiced motions, he one-handed the cap from it and took a pull, then put it deftly away. In a voice that was far more calm that it had a right to be, Reginald inquired of the group, "Quaint curiosity, mind you; but does anyone else detect the ceiling evaporating away before their very eyes?" He gave a determined nod, "I believe that time may be a factor."

Haring Reddish


Location: Benha (Sun Deck)
Skills: N/A


Corporal Reddish's face began to contort with something that resembled exaggerated confusion as Mosi spoke. It was the oddest sort of conversation from her end, both argumentative and agreeing with him in the same span of breath. But not just a "Yay" or "Nay" to one side, the other, then both; but actual reasoning behind either possible side of the equation with no small amount of supposition added in for good measure, while out there in the distance, whatever it was was still moving. Reddish began to wonder about the implications of continuing the conversation with her. Not to get him wrong, he was ever the fan of lively debate on a subject, if he felt passionate enough to study into it but detached enough not to take the challenge personally, but he'd seen more than plenty so far that reminded him of the uncertainties of war. Chief among this was that, if one wishes to continue breathing and does not have safe spot to jump into, one keeps moving.

Then came the voices. Of course they did. First the Lord Captain, then Mr. Benaszewski. Having processed a lot of this paperwork himself, Reddish was fairly certain that at least one of them was dead. It was also possible that one might see a tiny twitching of his eyelid as his brain struggled to process things.

Briefly, ever so briefly, Reddish's memory flashed back to a time long in his history. He had blackened his face with burnt cork and had just crept into an earthwork defense set up by the Teutonic peoples of Europe, with whom he shared a bloodline. It had been four days since he had eaten anything, and things were looking pretty desperate. There was this fuzzy orange tomcat that helped keep the rats at bay in his trench that they had set up as a sort of mascot. The hour he had considered roasting and eating the little bastich to relieve the pain in his stomach, it was time. That time happened to coincide with a smell of searing meat wafting in from across the battlefield. Later that night, he returned to his trench with a ham under his arm and covered in the blood of seventeen different men, none of whom he bore any personal animosity. You did what you had to do to survive. Period.

Reddish blinked it away just in time to hear Mosi's assessment of Vera fraying at the edges. He didn't see a bit of it, though he felt a bit frayed around the edges himself. Even if something was happening, there wasn't thing he could do about it. Reddish took a cursory step toward the stairs, saying, "One bullet might not. Twenty might, I'd bloody wager. I'm after supplies, who's with me?" Truth being that he would be an unprincipled cad to leave these women without defense, sans Josephine's pistol. Either way, he would be guilty of breaking some form of code of gentlemanly behavior, so he did rather wish they joined him. Sadly, he was still blissfully unaware of Vera's status at the moment, though gave her some regard for the moment's hesitation to check for himself again.
In 🦄 Tartarean Strands - Chapter 1: The Collision → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
@Lady Amalthea
CSs posted, thanks.
In 🦄 Tartarean Strands - Chapter 1: The Collision → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
In 🦄 Tartarean Strands - Chapter 1: The Collision → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
In 🦄 Tartarean Strands - Chapter 1: The Collision → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
In 🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Caesar & Keystone

Location: Grimm, Indiana (Outside of El Asilo/The Nuthouse!)
Skills: Shotgun
Skills: Pistol


Keystone wasn't the type to suffer fools, even if he was the one being foolish. Naturally, he didn't think that he was being particularly foolish, preferring as he did the concept of removing himself from this place and going elsewhere. I mean, there were noncombatants to think about, not to mention that there was a THING FROM A HENTAI HORROR MOVIE coming after them all. That might have been enough for most people, general principle alone. Now, Keystone was no coward. He'd proven this on many occasions. This was just throwing him for a loop, as was the mostly calm civility that most everyone was showing to one another, like the aristocracy from way back in the day sharing cucumber sandwiches and sipping tea while placing wagers while their armies of peasants killed one another. From a safe distance, of course.

Come to think of it, the big guy really could go for a decent plate of cucumber sandwiches. With curried mayonnaise. Maybe a couple with sundried tomatoes for a little extra oomph. But no, he was holding a 50 caliber hand cannon on an Eldritch Horror, hoping that the damn thing was going to listen to reason. And by "reason" he meant "hastily delivered ammunition". And by "delivered" he meant "Fuck all I'm gonna shoot this bastich".

Just before he pulled the trigger, an astute listener might have heard him rationalizing the situation and focusing on something to get mad about simultaneously by inquiring out loud, "Bloody 'ell's my cucumber sandwiches, right?" Any possible response might have been drowned out by the bark of his pistol.

Meanwhile Caesar had very little in the way of misgivings or concern for his own life, quite possibly, but like his more burly compatriot, he did wish to attend to the lives of others. His manner of doing that was a little different than Keystone's. While the younger man would have preferred discretion and controlling the circumstances of their encounter, Caesar favored the messier, if more direct route. He gave a glance toward Priya, advising her "You talk too much," with a growl before emptying the chamber of his shotgun into the beast above.

Any further attempt at conversation on his part was stymied by a further piece of advice, this from the old man's daughter, to Duck and Cover. It was heeded by both men, as the dead chick hurled the improvised explosive like a champ into the hole, bowling over the hideous thing with a sense of slapsticky charm. Caesar risked a half second to appreciate the throw - he certainly couldn't have done it better, himself, before Keystone grabbed him and pulled him down behind the vehicle they were using as cover.

There was something about a really good explosion that brought people together just as much as it blew others apart.

In 🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1 → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Ash Holloway
Location: Quarantine (Conference Room)
Skills: N/A


Victor was being led away. It was incredibly sudden. While the recently grizzled Frenchman seemed like he knew this was coming, what was likely surprising was that Ash looked like he expected this, as well. There were no words of protest on his part, no personally vouching for the man (as if his word had any weight with these people). There was just a look of disappointment on his face as a man who was once a friend and confidant was led away. Maybe it was the man's fault and maybe it circumstance, but Victor had changed. Ash saw it in black and white. This was not the man that he once knew. Maybe one day he might be again, after significant help and chances that CMB could not afford to gamble on a newcomer. They at least treated him humanely. Yes, Ash was disappointed. This is how it had to be. The rest of the people that he had considered family for so long were safe. That's what mattered.

He did pay attention when it was immediately announced that Beatrice was leaving. They hadn't gotten exceptionally close, and she did also voluntarily leave Newnan, be it just before it collapsed, literally. She was a lone wolf type. Ash didn't mesh well with those. Still, seeing her meet up with the others near that chopper a week ago, leading her own group? He had assumed some serious changes had taken the woman over their time outside. Maybe it was temporary. Still, he thought it was a shame. He didn't expect a farewell from Beatrice. Maybe he'd see her again, years down the road. Who could tell?

Everyone else was cleared. Including the batshit crazy and generally disagreeable older men who spent most of their time watching VHS recordings and making quips about the people around them. Even the paranoid and potentially violent kid. Ash couldn't claim to know what happened in their individual interviews, as his seemed pretty damned nonstandard, but they knew something he didn't, obviously. It reminded him of the time when he let a couple of Viking women into Newnan, plus their entourage. It required a leap of faith on his part and an act of goodwill on theirs, but they proved valuable to the community in the end.

His evaluation card, on the other hand, did set him slightly uneasy at first. PTSD? Maybe. As much as anyone else that still lived, and had to do it out there for any length of time. But if they were basing that on what followed on the card, well... Hearing voices, yes. A survival mechanism wherein he spoke to himself from a soldierly point of objectivity. The part of his brain that tells him to keep going when his body wants to lapse unconscious or when he had difficulties completing a necessary task due to various issues. "Get up, soldier. Move. You made a promise. Stay calm, or you're going to die." His own voice speaking to him in the confines of his skull.

But let's be honest: They didn't know him all that well. The people of CMB want to make sure that someone they invest in isn't going to do something bad, that might have been avoided with prudence. Well hell, no problem. He'll spend his 30 days picking up trash and doing recycling, he'll attend therapy even though it wasn't required. Ash would let them get to know him. From there, he'd take what roads were made available. His big, knightly quest of a year and a half was over. He was reunited with the woman he loved after thinking that she was dead, and what few people he could find from their ruined town were safely brought to this settlement. Oh, he'd always be a soldier. When they believed he was clear, he looked forward to being a part of CMB's restructured military. It was part of who he was, and always had been. But for now, at least for a little while, Ash could just be Ash. With Thana. That wasn't bad at all.

Ash folded his slip of paper and tucked it away. He listened to the remainder of what Thana had to say, and at the end, commented, "Seafood boil, huh?" He was a little bummed about Victor (which was fully on Victor), and just slightly put out about the psych section of his evaluation, but this wasn't going to make him regret any decision he made, nor was he going to sulk about it. This was a good day, period. "Count me in." It had been a long time since he'd been to a party. Ash really hoped he still remembered how to have fun.

Thalia Carmichael
Location: Quarantine (Conference Room)
Skills: Spanish


The more Thalia thought about it, the more an idea settled in her head. She was losing a friend today. This wasn't a new thing for anybody, but for her... Thalia had lost family. Lots of them. She had lost friends, too. She saw Lola shot down in front of her. Though she wasn't around for it, Bridgette and her cousin Alicia both got taken out by two different hordes of Zeds. Thalia herself had to put down Astrid's shambling corpse. Her uncle, people she worked with, that bitch up the road that made the really good cinnamon raisin bread, they all died horribly. But that was the point: they died. They went out trying like hell to stay with the people they counted as friends. Beatrice... She was just walking away.

She told her, and even told herself that she was cool with it, but it was wasn't fully true. She didn't want to make problems, and secretly Thalia hoped that Bea would give it a chance here. But no. After Quarantine, she was just opting to be dropped off at a random spot, hundreds of miles away, and keep walking. To be honest, Thalia felt a little betrayed. Maybe she didn't even have a right to feel that way. She still did. Everyone makes their own decisions, and yes, if certain boxed hadn't been checked off, she'd be right there with Beatrice. She couldn't do that now. And of course, she felt just a little like a hypocrite, seeing as she spent literally years out there utilizing primitive survival and bushcraft, all by her lonesome, to survive. She didn't have friends then, though. No one to fight for. Or alongside. Beatrice was leaving, and it sucked, and she wasn't going to try to stop her.

Oh yeah, and to hell with Victor. She had no idea what that guy's malfunction was.

Provided that Bea was going to pick her out as one of the people she said goodbye to, Thalia was burying most of these new feelings, planning simply on telling her, "Desearía que te quedaras1, Killeh Bea. You take care of you," with moist eyes. And a hug. Maybe a quick ass-grab, because we don't want things too saccharin. But whatever happened, happened. It was something she was going to deal with as a newish experience, losing a friend without death getting involved. Then back to guarding her feelings, as she tended to.

She had her own life to get back on track, and she knew why she had to. Her evaluation and job recommendation put a couple of questions in her head, which she planned on voicing at the next opportunity. Did this mean that she was to be trained as a soldier? Or as a security guard? Was she training for escort runs or the like, or training to handle firearms again with one hand, switch up her melee style a bit? Walk the wall? Babysit newer people in Quarantine? Was she going to pick up new skills that she could use? Well, no matter. She was signed up now, and when she was ready to join up with whatever part she was assigned and/or steered toward. Learn what she can from others. Train. Train. TRAIN. Ballet was kicking ass so far.

Plus, where there was a barbecue, there was a fire. Thalia hadn't seen a decent crackling fire in over a week, and to be quite frank, she was getting a little itch about it. So great. Tour, little community party, and then she begins the infinitely more difficult task of re-acclimating to living in a settlement rather than outside of one.



Hank Wright
Location: Quarantine (Conference Room)
Skills: N/A


Much like Wayne, there wasn't a whole lot of caring or getting in a tizzy about the people who left. He didn't know most of these people here, and no tears were shed about the French guy. He might not have known it, but Hank was able to understand most of what the guy was muttering in his native language. It was called "being a Sheriff that close to the Canadian border", and sometimes it had useful little perks in hindsight like that. But that wasn't so much the big upset of the day. No, that honor went to the fact that not only was he cleared, but so was Wayne. That was heavy. Very heavy. A couple of older jackasses; one emotionally stunted and one batshit crazy, both starting out the apocalypse in a fucking loony bin, and now he's being recommended for...

"Oh, ah myGod, Wayne. Hey, Maldonado, you gotta take a look at this," he urged his counterpart, showing him the slip of paper. He pointed to the part that recommended him to Psychiatry, and gave a little chuckle. "Y'know, I'll do it. But I'm going to need some demands met, like a good pair of reading glasses and one of those couches for people to lie on. Ok, for me to lie on, until this beachside thing kicks off. That sounds like it's right up my alley. And no, that phrase means I like it, not... that other thing. Whatever. I'm doing this." He did seem pretty certain.

As if on cue to signal that the new people were their new countrymen, the guards around them lowered their weapons and became instantly more amicable. Hank guessed that this was retirement, then. In a manner of speaking, anyway. Now, he just had to figure out how many extra hours he'd have to shrink heads and/or yell at people who needed a good yelling before he could afford to live on a nice, sturdy boat. Goal Number 2. It was good to have goals.
© 2007-2024
BBCode Cheatsheet