“ALRIGHT, ALRI--”
Upon the fourth Nonnie’s arrival, he’d gotten the shotgun out. As soon as the godawful pun left the greyscale... he blew it’s petals clean off, grey dust shadowing over the floor.
“I get it,” he growled, through gritted teeth. Grabbing a dustpan, the bokor sweeped the flower’s remains into the trash can, expression sour. “I wanted to help, but now it seems like a daunting task, with all of your INCESSANT DRONING!”
Huffing, he tossed the broom to the side, grabbing a bag and beginning to shove it full of unidentifiable items.
“Spirits, let us persist. There is a reckless, tiny cup boy that needs to be removed from a tree.”
















