Room 311, Thursday Afternoon
Tyler hummed to himself as he squatted over his probably-illegal hot plate, the stockpot on which held a blob of yellowy fat that was almost to the point of melting. He had covered his bed with a scrap of plywood and turned it into a soap-making lab:
Ice water with lye dissolved in it, check.
Extra glycerine in case there wasn't enough in the fat, check.
Cocoa powder, check.
Chocolate scent, check.
Pretty molds to raise the price, check.
Open window and fan to mask the scent, check.
As soon as his not-a-goat partner got home, the Paper Street Soap Company was back in business.
[OOIC: For the rooooomie, but feel free if you wanna bug him.]
Ice water with lye dissolved in it, check.
Extra glycerine in case there wasn't enough in the fat, check.
Cocoa powder, check.
Chocolate scent, check.
Pretty molds to raise the price, check.
Open window and fan to mask the scent, check.
As soon as his not-a-goat partner got home, the Paper Street Soap Company was back in business.
[OOIC: For the rooooomie, but feel free if you wanna bug him.]