[Lost - Bultungin] Bosses House
Horsefeathers. Yase. One inch of thorn tip from the hedge and three parts ephemeral bottled nightmares of seaweed and endless black water beneath pulling you underwater. Yessss.
And some WD-40 and paprika.
Perfect. It will be perfect. Yes. Yes, perfect. Boss will be pleased.
She pushed them all into the funnel and batted it down with a cotton pad on a long thin wire, splattering her face and the heavy leather apron. Physically, the sheer amount of space the ingredients took up could not fit in the space of the gun's barrel. She did not, however, understand physics, so the implausibility of such things did not bother her.
The gun was left upright in the workshop's clamp, and she skittered over to the cupboards.
Grape Jelly; no. Virgin blood; no. Giraffe bile - salted or unsalted; no. Baltic Acid; no. Carrot Baby vomit; no. Meconium; no. Mule semen; no. Kiwi-lime Mad Dog 20-20; Yes. Vicious. Perfect. Pesticides; no. Mint toothpaste; maybe. Tigerbalm; no. Pig musk; no. Concentrated deer urine; maybe. Earth Tunnel Tribe hob blood; yes. Yes. Crystal Pepsi syrup; no. Hrph.
Pulling the deer urine, hob blood, mad dog, and mint toothpaste together, she skittered back to the work bench.
Double-Tap looked up from the awkward care and cleaning of her rifle, paws working carefully. Her dark-furred hyena face blinking slowly at the working bipedal creature. DT gathered her pieces as quickly as possible and high-tailed it from the lab, claws scrabbling against the floor tiles.
Bultungin took no notice, her four-footed clanmates oft evacuated when she was spinning. The ingredients mashed most pleasantly in the mortar and pestle, turning an ugly oil-color, black with twisting strands of purple and red, and smoking. She etched symbols into the metal, the concoction melting into the steel.
Now. Let sit for three days under a red silk kerchief soaked in alcohol. Yase.
Boss will be pleased.
And some WD-40 and paprika.
Perfect. It will be perfect. Yes. Yes, perfect. Boss will be pleased.
She pushed them all into the funnel and batted it down with a cotton pad on a long thin wire, splattering her face and the heavy leather apron. Physically, the sheer amount of space the ingredients took up could not fit in the space of the gun's barrel. She did not, however, understand physics, so the implausibility of such things did not bother her.
The gun was left upright in the workshop's clamp, and she skittered over to the cupboards.
Grape Jelly; no. Virgin blood; no. Giraffe bile - salted or unsalted; no. Baltic Acid; no. Carrot Baby vomit; no. Meconium; no. Mule semen; no. Kiwi-lime Mad Dog 20-20; Yes. Vicious. Perfect. Pesticides; no. Mint toothpaste; maybe. Tigerbalm; no. Pig musk; no. Concentrated deer urine; maybe. Earth Tunnel Tribe hob blood; yes. Yes. Crystal Pepsi syrup; no. Hrph.
Pulling the deer urine, hob blood, mad dog, and mint toothpaste together, she skittered back to the work bench.
Double-Tap looked up from the awkward care and cleaning of her rifle, paws working carefully. Her dark-furred hyena face blinking slowly at the working bipedal creature. DT gathered her pieces as quickly as possible and high-tailed it from the lab, claws scrabbling against the floor tiles.
Bultungin took no notice, her four-footed clanmates oft evacuated when she was spinning. The ingredients mashed most pleasantly in the mortar and pestle, turning an ugly oil-color, black with twisting strands of purple and red, and smoking. She etched symbols into the metal, the concoction melting into the steel.
Now. Let sit for three days under a red silk kerchief soaked in alcohol. Yase.
Boss will be pleased.