Penelope turns on her tablet feed to show her sprawled in a brocaded armchair, her ginormous cat draped over her lap in a manner that might indicate his status as an ex-cat if it weren't for the occasional twitch of his tail and the constant low rumble of purr coming from his general direction. She, for once, isn't smoking, but she is twirling a
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Least the blow'd be real. I wonder what the exchange rate is for that shit 'round here.
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Dude, ask a hatch, I don't know. The whole New Money thing still confuses me.
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I just don't understand the point of the party.
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Look, when actual human beings go through some traumatizing shit, they've got a lot of steam that needs to get blown off, ergo: party. Then they can get on with their lives. I've been stuck in a bed for the last like month and a half, I've got some fucking steam.
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[He stockpiled.]
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"Thank you for the shirt, Penelope."
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"Oh. It suits you!" Oh my god stop lying. "You are... so welcome."
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"You don't like Mr. T Tiger? I completely saw it and thought of you."
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"Catering covered," Enfys offers brightly, because parties are great and she's still enjoying the ridiculousness of Bruce's kitchen. ...simple pleasures in life.
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Obviously 'lots and lots of nibbles', but that's the obvious answer here.
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"How do we feel about little mini spring rolls and samosas? And cupcakes - lots and lots of fucking cupcakes, you can play with the icing if you keep me company doing them. There's these little deep fried cheese things, too..."
She can just keep going. For the record.
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