"Right. Well, you could be real. Or, you could all be mildly disturbing and possibly tumor-induced figments of my admittedly well-developed imagination.
Who wants to play Twenty Questions?"
[ooc: I'm attempting an experiment. Tony will be collecting details he gleans about everyone he comes in contact with. Those details will be listed on his
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"So long as it goes both directions, sure." His own is mid- to low range, American (Bostonian or thereabouts) with a smoker's gravelly undercurrent.
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"If you like. When did you quit smoking?"
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So apparently he's not going to wait until Tony's had his twenty. (That he's answering someone else's questions at all is actually something of a miracle.)
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Pleasant baritone voice with an Irish accent. Connemara, if Tony can pinpoint such things.
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"Brilliant. What kind of shoe are you wearing?"
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"That's an interesting game to choose."
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He pauses for a moment, and then adds, "Ah. Sorry. You are the one asking the questions in this particular game, if I understand it correctly."
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There's a pause, and a bit of rattling, like the phone-or whatever-is being juggled a bit. "Whoo! Almost fell off that time. I can fall pretty good, but goin' limp doesn't do a damn thing at this altitude, you know?" Yeah.
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"Well, no I probably wouldn't know, never having been in a situation that required...falling great distances. It's good to know, the part about going limp not being helpful." Oh, was that a rhetorical question?
"Right, so...cats or dogs?"
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At any rate, Murdock accepts the literal response for what it is, and rolls along with this, because he's just that kind of guy. "Dogs, always dogs. Cats, like appetites, are fickle creatures." A gust of wind blows right into the receiver, hi. "Hang on, for what? Billy wants to know why you're askin'."
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