There was this one time where Bigscope contracted with Landlord Shockpat where he would have to drop bags of gold to Penter Villa, a local street in Jag Shore, anonymously for unknown criminally genius reasons and in exhange he would be able to win him one request—anything, from his founded mountain-deep jewelry to the cutest bob-cut young adult in his hostees, to the unique Macro Crab (a gun that fires orange crab shells that smells of Spanish vinegar) from the notorious Firecast gang of High Elvans, the Horsecorpse.
He went down the hall. Pancakes of yesterday truncated the still afternoon sunshine. His big shadow disfigured on the sliding doors as he passed.
He faced the brown one. The strong crap of coffee freshened up from inside.
"I'll be taking Rushban." He looked through the door as if he knew someone was inside. "This is my favor from ten years ago."
Landlord Shockpat patted his cigarette to the plate, wondering what made him act very strongly in the middle of work. "Haven't really used it in years. But don't mess it up." Then, a familiarity popped back up from the ashen embers. "You're coming back, right? For your sister. At least."
"They don't play around at Jag Shore. Can't deny that I won't be coming back with a non-burned uniform."
"Oh, yeah. So you're going there." Shockpat blew the air, whispered sigh. "If you come back clean, I'll give you a raise."
Bigscope had already left by that moment. Shockpat looked at the transparent water glass painting on his wall. It reflected the sky clean, but aloof of heavy shapes.
He sought answers. "Father, I hope you forgive for me for ruining the family's reputation."
It turns out that the day he ordered Biggie to drop the golds at Jag Shore, the two-decade long earnings from running illegal witchery to scamming hopeless CR-less bums, he was hoping to redeem himself of the sins he had commited.
Bigscope went to the last door. It bulged a doorknob, like those in Humpkin's world, something this version of reality hasn't yet caught up to.
Rushban was not something you control like horses. "The sheer fact is that," he thought, "it can't be controlled." It's a ping-pong ball that fits to the center of one's palm. "It probably can't drain anything else but my remaining years," he thought again, "but it'd be worth a try."
Caster's Resistance flows from the spinal cord, then coordinates through every bit of structure inside the body, solid or liquid or gas. Therefore, if it can't suck anything out, one's body will have to do.
"Ain't no problem."
But, while all else unfolded, High Man slammed his tummy to the soft foam and the maid blanketed his lump of fat from absorbing Sun Hate from the orange window.
The maid, Vestibula, who was dressed tight to accentuate the waist like an expensive wine glass one would only see displayed near bookshelves, shuffled from the two closet across each other inside the room. Like towers, twins.
"You found it yet?"
"Oh my Victorian." She adjusted suits hanged freely inside. "Who would have thought a guy so powerful can't even find his belt? For what anyway? You won't even fit them."
He smiled through the pillow, with one eye to the jiggling fruits. "Now, that's how I like my baby girl. Keep looking. Harder."
But now that he thought about the word "look," Vestibula's voice muffled like waters ("Why don't you trace it with . . ." ) and he remembered Humpkin, the poor pushover from somewhere in New Pork–whatever. After magicing his ass to High Elvans without actual supposed directions, how was he going to manage?
"Is he really going to progress our plans, Paramourgue?"