...look like a monkey...
“You lack subtly,” Moist said to Mr. Fusspot, who beside him on the starlit beach was a third of the way through his latest Treat from the wardrobe and showing no signs of having his spirits dampened anytime soon. Turning from setting the small bonfire alight, he watched the small pug the same way an Ankh-Morpork socialite may watch a miscreant defecate on her perfectly manicured lawns. “Honestly, you poor rascal. It’s a blessing you were graced with such dashing good looks.”
The pug looked up at him mournfully, grunting enthusiastically around a mouthful of polymer. With one eye, at least. The other was listing blissfully off in the direction of the shoreline. Moist sighed to himself, and gingerly patted the mutt’s head. It took all kinds, he reasoned. All misanthropic, cross-eyed kinds.
The fire was something of a show, a picture out of a book entitled “Romance: an Expert’s Guide”. There was firelight, a thick blanket spread on the sand, a few books. There was even a bartered for few bottle of local ale laying innocently on the blanket. Plans had been laid in motion already. All there was for Moist to do was lay back on the comforter and wait.
He hummed to himself, eyes closed, and looked up at the sparkling night sky. The tune was familiar and had been sung across the multiverse to celebrate the achievement of an individual’s ability to survive another few hundred days around a given lightsource.
“...and you smell like one too,” he finished, grinning wickedly and cracking his eyes open at the sound of someone approaching. It was probably damn stupid. It might get killed, or at least impressively maimed, but Moist couldn’t help feel a little of the old reckless adrenaline rise up in his veins.
Self-preservation was for the weak of heart, wasn’t it?
The pug looked up at him mournfully, grunting enthusiastically around a mouthful of polymer. With one eye, at least. The other was listing blissfully off in the direction of the shoreline. Moist sighed to himself, and gingerly patted the mutt’s head. It took all kinds, he reasoned. All misanthropic, cross-eyed kinds.
The fire was something of a show, a picture out of a book entitled “Romance: an Expert’s Guide”. There was firelight, a thick blanket spread on the sand, a few books. There was even a bartered for few bottle of local ale laying innocently on the blanket. Plans had been laid in motion already. All there was for Moist to do was lay back on the comforter and wait.
He hummed to himself, eyes closed, and looked up at the sparkling night sky. The tune was familiar and had been sung across the multiverse to celebrate the achievement of an individual’s ability to survive another few hundred days around a given lightsource.
“...and you smell like one too,” he finished, grinning wickedly and cracking his eyes open at the sound of someone approaching. It was probably damn stupid. It might get killed, or at least impressively maimed, but Moist couldn’t help feel a little of the old reckless adrenaline rise up in his veins.
Self-preservation was for the weak of heart, wasn’t it?