Somewhere near the ceiling of the Sorting Room, there is a sound much like
a baseball bat being passed through a coffee maker, and then a large gray-green mass materializes out of thin air and lands on the ground with a splatch. It sits there for a moment, inert, and then a pair of eyes emerge and pan around the room. The mass sprouts a pair of
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Then he squints at the Hat, looks at his plasma cannon, and two more eyes pop out of the back of his head on stalks to stare at the Hat.
"MINE," Schlock announces, cradling the big honkin' gun possessively. "You want one? Fine. But you're not getting my personalized favorite plasgun."
Two more hands sprout from his sides. "Actually, hold that thought."
Hand number three reaches for Schlock's lower ... "lip" and pulls his mouth open wide. Hand number four reaches into his mouth and comes out with a much smaller gun. "This one is probably more your size. The Planet Mercenary catalog says it's ten times more powerful, and all you lose is the 'ominous hum'."
He hands the smaller gun to the Hat, and strokes his own gun like it was a kitten. "I guess I'm just a traditionalist."
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"You've got an awful lot of hands." As an entity that lacked visible arms, the Hat often found itself obsessed with other people's.
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He gives the Hat a look. "How do you manage it? I mean, I can change my form if I need to, but you're basically just a hat, right?"
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He frowns. "You're not really going to turn into an elephant, are you? 'Cos I don't have such a good history with elephants," he continues, shuddering (and a shudder on an amorphous blob is ... rather impressive).
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Schlock's shudder reminded the Hat of jelly. Hmmm, so if Schlock were to imbibe alcohol, would he be a living, breathing jelly shot, aka Evil Clown Repellent? This could be very useful!
"You wouldn't happen to be a teetotaler, would you? If not, then I know just where to Sort you!"
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