Tidings of great grief from the Cottage.
"He's floating again," the Creatrix said, peering into Humbaba's murky tank.
"He's definitely coming for you," I told the Wolverina, who has seen her fate in the eyes of the crayfish. The Wolverina shuddered.
"Guys...Guys..." The Mad Scientist said in consternation. "Guys, I think he's dead..."
A startled silence.
Humbaba is a lesser god. Humbaba is eternal.
The Mad Scientist extracted Humbaba from his tank and took him to the kitchen, where she put him in a bowl of clean water to verify his post-mortal-coil state. I cautiously went to join her, largely out of morbid curiosity.
Silence in the Cottage.
We all gathered in the kitchen. The Mad Scientist didn't speak, but simply took the bowl upstairs.
More silence.
Then, blooming as a crocus in spring, the thought bubble grew above our heads: Where is she going with that dead crayfish?
The Wolverina and I simultaneously clapped our hands over our mouths. There were these horrible little strangled noises coming out of my noise and I couldn't make them stop. It was a couple of minutes before we heard the Mad Scientist moving upstairs.
Oh shit.
The Wolverina was hacking, and I was shaking, and we were both making stilted motions at each other, Shut up, shut up, ohcrap. The Mad Scientist came down the stairs, and we scattered.
"Yeah," she said disgustedly a day later. "I saw you racing into your room. Shaking. Assholes."