Solo Something about a mess

[Anton]

23th Fall, 512 AV

"So you wanna fuck her brains out across the pavement?"

"That," Anton said, with the patience of a saint who went to a course in sainthood at acumen asylum of saints and graduated with flying saint honors and subsequently went on to work in the department of sainthood in the town of saintvadas. "was not what I said."

"No, what you said was 'Hey, Huntell, a friend of mine has a friend who has a puppy who would very much like to find another of it's kind to spend the rest of its days with', which translates to 'Hey, Huntell, I fancy a girl but I ain't got the balls to tell you or her', which translates to the aformentioned fuckery of squishy brain across cold, unforgiving stone."

"You know, excessive vulgarities are a sign of massive overcompensation."

"Then you should indulge in it more, my dearest midget friend. Is she taller than you?"

"I'm going to flay you from-"

"Answer the question."

"I don't have to."

"Yes, you do."

"I'm a silencer. I'm embodying my calling in life right now. Please don't disturb."

Beat.

"...Yes."

"Gee, that narrows it down to EVERYONE."

"I'm going to laugh very, very loudly when the drinks start to take their tow."

"Low, Ant."

"How else does a midget strike?"

"Touche. Size?"

"Huh?"

"Her size. On a scale of one to five thousand, with one being the deepest, darkest, bleakest crater of the Valterrian, and Five thousand being-"

"One thousand. Five hundred." Anton gave him a look that dared him to say anything about it. "and fifty two."

Dare accepted. "That's...that's flat ground. Half a bump or two maybe, but otherwise so flat hills run to avoid it. Which means, she either had a tragic chest accident, be cursed by a deity really, really badly." Huntell smiled a smile that slimed like a slug. "Or she's your age."

"Good for you, you narrowed it down to a couple hundred street urchins."

"Oh, she's a street urchin?"

Petch.

"No. NO."

"Yes. YES." Huntell cackled as Rhysol would cackle as he stopped to change the signs in a chariot race so Sylir would find himself and his horses traversing a swampbog. "Victory is mine!"

"Can I Interrupt your gloating for a second?"

"No, allow me to interrupt my gloating to inform you of my suddenly revealed web of Listener contacts."

"You're bluffing."

"Continue believing that. Um, yeah? Gloating interruption engaged."

"What's wrong with liking someone my age."

"Oh, it's not that. I just figured you for the time to pin for older women. You know the ones; twice your age, thrice your height, quadruple experience in epic fuckery. Scratch that. Zero times four is still zero."

"Have you heard of the man who lost his third limb to the oft put-upon Voider?"

"Have you heard of the better Voider who avoided such a fate by being, well, a BETTER Voider?"

"You wait. You just wait."

"Look, it beats the alternate conclusion I came to."

"Alternate conclusion?"

"Alternate conclusion."

"Alternat-Oh. I'll kill you."

"Ineffectual death threats aside, I'm glad to know there's still a man in there. Cut your hair. it's confusing."

"A concussion may fix your brain."

"Have you seen my violin? Because I'm quivering."

[Anton]

Anton And Huntell spent a few moments staring at their assignment in the alley with a fun mix of dumbstruck awe and a severe case of why can't we have nice human problems all the time this is gonna suck.

"That's big." Anton said.

"Big? Foot's big. This is monumental."

"I think I know what that is but...I haven't seen one this huge."

"Seen one before?"

"Sir used to keep one down under. 'Absurd dietary needs and care for a glorified cow' to quote him. He was pretty upset when it expired. Of natural causes. Which I had nothing to do with."

"Uh Huh."

"Don't even hint it to him."

"Sealed."

"But Sally was small-"

"Sir Torrain calls it Sally?"

"No, he calls it 'You!', the rest of us call her Sally. But yeah, Sally was small, this one's, well, big."

"Enormous," Huntell agreed.

"He couldn't leave it in one spot? There's some there, there, there, bit on the walls over there." Point, point, point, point.

"Silencer Brodi's a messy one. Respect another man's handiwork."

"It's sloppy. Can't respect something like that. People should clean upn after themselves."

"Oh, grow up. Not everyone has access to the Void."

"The privilege is overwhelming."

"Wish you your gal be this big?"

"What gal? Girl."

"Oh, we're playing this card now?"

"What is the defintion of girl? To whom does the gal -girl- be sworn? Girls, who are forever present to me, or rather would be if I knew the meanin-"

"She's blonde!"

"How did you know?"

"So she's not blonde. Terrible liar, you."

"I'm starting work."

"Avoid, avoid, avoid the topic, gently down denial's stream~"

Sometimes work happened to be a murderer waiting to be brought down. Sometimes work happened to be crazed -or a not so crazed- mage, fallen to his own arcane power. Sometimes work turned out to be a wild animal, waiting to be put down. Sometimes work was a little more than all of the above.

And sometimes...work was just a big, undignified mess, and voiders returned to what voiders do: convenient cleanup, before the fine desecrating folks at Divine Legacy could sneak in and find new loot.

40 feet of constrictor -or rather, chunks and bits that should add up to 40 feet- lay sprawled across the alley.