Give me… that. Oh, that fucking bitch.
THE EARS OF YOUR SOUL HEAR THE LANGUAGE, DO THEY?
God damn it, Ollopa, can you speak fucking English?
I speak the language of the mind. I speak the language of the soul. The tight lipped one understands. She spoke the language on her parchment.
I don’t want to fucking talk to her.
She’s about to take a short drop with a sudden stop, old sport.
The lipped one with the black tentacles in her head?
You aren’t wrong there.
Not at all, and chummy too. The lipped one with the black tentacles in her head, she makes home in your Mecca now? I had her pegged for more of a Daniel.
It’s just like having a fucking pet when you’re around. I think it’s a good idea to talk to you for a half a second and then regret it immediately.
How much of a siren’s tone does that convey the madness you posses. To speak to a pet, HA! You must communicate with many an ass, old sport.
Ah, no more is the man a yodeling goat. Relief.
I AM MIFFED. Just clean it up, you asinine piece of shit.
Ay ay, Pirate’s Bay. And a bottle of rum.
Meaning you didn’t do it. Well, I don’t fucking believe you seeing as Bobbin and Black aren’t stupid enough. What were you looking for?
I don’t look, there is no looking. There is only waiting and the world’s provisions. You are seven cacti from a pickled concubine right now, old sport. You seem miffed.