so yeah if you ever wondered, exactly, how fucking trippy kellan looks, theres ur answer
Jules of Nature

Love Begins
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
todays bird

tannertan36
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me

Andulka

Janaina Medeiros
DEAR READER
Show & Tell

blake kathryn
ojovivo
Sade Olutola

pixel skylines
art blog(derogatory)

JVL
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oozey mess
will byers stan first human second
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@darcey-tow
so yeah if you ever wondered, exactly, how fucking trippy kellan looks, theres ur answer
@pips-tow replied to your post:anyway ive veen up eighteen hours so its like time...
WOW GNIGHT DROP A BOMB AND LEAVE sleep well ok sweet dreams
[twirls away into the night like the nefarious ballerina i am]
anyway ive veen up eighteen hours so its like time for bed tbh
broken bones and promises. tag Stu
The clouds were clearing from his mind. Nothing gave him clarity like panic–and Stu had been living in a state of mild anxiety for as long as he could remember. At this point, he wouldn’t know himself without that familiar buzz in his nerves that told him Everything Was Dangerous. It usually left his head in a cotton-wrapped pillowcase of muffled sound and sensation, but panic…panic was different. It was a honed, focus scalpel of electricity that cut through his senses and zapped him full of awakeness, awareness. His frightened, bulbous eyes wildly searched the face of the woman who’d haunted his nightmares for months, who crawled out of the back of his subconscious thoughts as she no doubt had her own grave. His mouth opened and shut, then stayed shut, tightened, and hummed with fear, a whimper that didn’t quite make it past the concealment of his scratched and faded, ashen lips.
“N–nuh–no–” His voice stuttered out at long last, hardly his own. You don’t have to deal with this. Yes I do. No, you really don’t…”N-nno…” Stuart shook his head like a snake, more of a negative oscillation rather than a proper, emphatic dismissal. It was as if he had become transfixed on the horrific visage before him, unable to take his eyes off her. Too afraid of what would happen if he did. Would she vanish, or would she kill him? He wasn’t sure which was worse at this point–reality or his nightmares given some semblance of closer flesh and fright…
Instinctively, he shifted more in front of the painting, fear tightening to a pinch at either temple–a pain which spiked at the insinuation Lucas did not take kindly to, the attack dog lunging at the end of his lead, the electric fence that was Stuart’s nervous system barely keeping the Other at bay. His throat tightened, his head spun. His shaking hands fell back to better shield his painting, and his ghostly face twisted with the effort of–staying. Of not fainting, or…worse, for all involved. Not just the two of them, this creature from Hell itself in any circle and the little boy lost, but for the street, the town…he means well, Lucas does, but he doesn’t, all the same, and I can’t…
You can. You really can.
“Y-you–really s…shouldn’t p-provoke…him, I–I’m s…suh–” his voice failed him, and Stuart tried to blink, tried to think, tried to keep it together. It was coming back to him, in pieces–pieces of her, the taste of her energy, her life, sour and wasted on his tongue. The most bitter combination of chemicals and communion wine. The first of its kind that he’d ever–savored…
Days like these, he craved for lightning to strike him again, strike him down this time. Finish what it started. If it had to begin with, he wouldn’t be here. She wouldn’t be here.
He wouldn’t have…
“I’m sorry, I’m so–so sorry,” he half-whispered, half-sobbed, his shaking hands finally extending in front of himself with automated protectiveness, not quite his own, anymore. “I’m sorry, I-I-I didn’t–m-mean…to…of course I meant to, we meant to…” He swallowed and shook his head again, harder this time.
“N-no, that’s not what I–I–you’re…you’re not here, you…you aren’t…real…” None of this had to be.
It doesn’t have to be, if you just…let me…
This one was truly useless. If it wasn’t for his other half, the waif of a being would definitely be laying facedown in a ditch somewhere. He was like a little baby bird- so nervous, so fragile, and likely very easy to snap. She watched his jittery movements, twitching from place to place, transfixed like a rabbit in the gaze of a snake. He sensed, likely, that she was all the more dangerous now than she had been then, and well, who could blame him. When a tormentor you put in the ground came crawling back for more- the thought of it made even her feel uncomfortable, and she was made of iron, wilful and cold. Stu was made of smoke in cold air and fleeting inspiration, intangible and always a distraction away from oblivion. It was probably just as well he’d been let go: even now, she noted, slightly impressed, he was holding off the other one, though the cracks were evident, rushing across bone-white skin as the monster tried to claw it’s way out of the boy. It seemed as if he was gaining better control over his more murderous side, a pity in Verbena’s eyes. He’d never have made a good asset- that had been her assessment, in the final report she had filed on him. Unless they could find a way to scrub out “Stu” entirely, he would likely always be the default mindset. Not that Verbena weren’t skilled at erasing people: bodies were stockpiled like medical supplies, waiting to be filled, blank spaces for whatever the scientists might need. It was just more difficult when there were two people occupying the same body. They had tried- she had tried- but it was just shy of impossible.
Clearly, her superiors hadn’t liked that very much.
She laughed, a sound that fell flat among the stone buildings. “What, is he going to kill me again? I’m not sure it works like that anymore, you know,” she said sourly, giving the experiment an acrid glower. She was fairly sure she would survive an encounter with Lucas this time around, what with her newly received gifts. Science truly was the gift that kept on giving. Giving questionable superpowers to morally dubious individuals. She couldn’t deny the lure of wreaking havoc across the human world, but that would almost definitely land her back at verbena faster than you could say “tranquiliser darts and blanket sleep spell guns”. She had to wonder if she, like Stu, had been permitted to escape as part of some grander experiment. If she had, she was certainly making their lives easier for them- all their eggs were now in one supernatural basket. And the little egg in front of her looked ready to crack, stammering apologies, pleading with the world to be less horrifying, trying to wish her away. She rolled her eyes. “Would you please shut up,” she said, vicious emphasis as she thrust a hand towards him, palm showing, fingers hooked to jerk him backwards. Clenching the hand into a vindictive fist, she pulled towards her and forced him forwards, overbalancing him. She hoped she’d drawn blood with the impact.
“You may as well stop begging the world to be a nice place,” she said, eyes glowing with pale fire as she began the now familiar process of leeching energy, an invisible transfer of life force taking place. “I’m here to personally remind you it’s not.”
It was similar to someone stepping on a crisp twig in a silent forest.
Like a fish hitting the water after a particularly impressive beat. The gun shot post-firing. The drumstick hitting a snare. An acorn hitting the roof.
It had resonance.
Stu was flung back like a ragdoll, then yanked forward, reeled in by the power Darcey dealt so fast all apologies were left behind with his stomach and nerves, his body careening toward the cobblestones. His hands flung themselves out, but not quite fast enough to prevent the inevitable. White-hot agony flashed across his eyes as his head and cheek struck the uneven rocks that lined the road, the paint-splattered vagabond colliding with the cobbles with a limp smack of motion.
It all unraveled.
It was difficult to pinpoint the actual trigger. Hard to say what started it all, but down the rabbit hole he began to descend, dragged backwards; the rabbit outsmarted by a fox who’d lain in wait and made Stu’s home his grave.
Like a series of jittering images being rewound on a shaky film, he could see bits and fragments of what had transpired. He saw Darcey hovering over him, expressionless, haloed by chemicals that shone wickedly pale and sterile in the hanging lights, a needle in one hand and a timer in the other, posed like a saint fixated in a mosaic of medical supplies and watchful eyes. Her unholy lack of humor leaving her face gaunt in life as it was in death, her head slightly bowed as she looked down at him (and what a strange out-of-body experience that was) strapped to the table, forced to strain his eyes against the unforgiving, endless tunnel of light to see her. The shadow at the end that loomed like Death herself, monotonously counting his pulse, checking his vitals, and–
Stu didn’t want to remember anymore.
The world twisted worse than his stomach did as Darcey started to feed. It was like the weakness that came from laying a long day in the sun at the shore; but colder. Much colder. He could feel the energy being drained out of him, a viral, horrible sensation of being bitten and sucked on; as if he was just a ripened fruit for her to sink her teeth into. As if he was fodder for her still, even now, beyond the grave and post-mortem. He remained…hers, somehow. Property of Verbena and their tests even now, not his own person, just the thing Darcey could order at the window if she had a hankering for nervous energy flavored with disorder…
One hand shot out following the observation of steadying fingers against the cut on his brow. Blood painted his face in streaks of crimson, dancing down toward his chin like streaks of lightning. Under wild ginger hair, it looked like his colors were running. Bloodied and painted digits twitched and twisted in the air–then pushed. They pushed against Darcey, they hummed and snapped and lanced around her efforts, choking the wraith’s hunger, strangling her efforts, dragging HER in, trying to either break her hold or her; herself, whichever came first…
“Ow,” breathed the man who picked his head up following the nasty spill he’d taken on the cobbles. Where Stuart was all avoiding glances and shaky limbs, this–whoever he was–was calm. Calculated. Secure. His eyes were steady, boring into Darcey’s own as he smoothly shifted from his knees to his feet in one fluid gesture that was as inhuman as it was serpentine; or perhaps avian–but the predatory, focused aspect of the personality peeking through cerulean-green windows spoke more to the qualities of a raptor than a songbird. It lacked the fragility and dependence, making up for each with ferocity and singularity.
“That was REALLY rude, Frankenstein,” said the thing which called itself Lucas, wiping blood from his brow and flashing Darcey a gash of a smile. With one final push, Stu’s self-proclaimed “better half” lunged forward, harnessing powers he himself was still getting used to in an effort to force her back, cut her off, and, with any luck, banish her back whence she came.
But Lucas had a feeling Hell had kicked this one out for a reason.
Same as him.
“Then again, etiquette isn’t mandatory to receive one’s PhD…!”
Still eyes watched him blandly as he was cowed under her grip, glittering animatedly as they had not done in life. She was a long tunnel, with one gaping maw in the living world, a desperate grasp in the light, the rest, scattered. If she lost her grip, she was lost- torn apart by the conflict of life and death, a silent seething battle underlying the world. Death may seem silent, and life may seem passive, but the truth is that the forces are in conflict, always. Death tries to claim that which is living, and living things desperately, wildly, franticly fight it. Beings that got between the foes, whether caught accidentally or snagged, or pushed there by arcane and vulgar magics, were lost, stuck like flies on wax paper. Ghosts were see-through of body and soul, zombies and vampires lived but didn't, died but couldn't. Life was a fox and death was a murder of crows, and Darcey was a scrap of carrion gained not by one or the other. She fouled both mouths and was wanted by neither. The only thing giving her even a semblance of wholeness, preventing her from dissolving into nothing but half-thoughts and scattered emotions and pain and memories was the energy she drained whenever she could get it- a sickly lifeblood, so cold it burnt and hurt.
There might have been an audible crack in the air, or it may have been in her ears alone, when the decisive movement of fingers, a denial. It was a simple motion, but the sheer strength of the conviction behind it made it as effective as an ancient Word of Power against the monster. She took half a step back only, hair bouncing with the heavy footed motion, and she grinned. This was no Stuart, at war with himself, filled with partially formed plans and contradictions. This was a united front, strong like a boar, wild like a bear. It hurt like she'd run full speed into a brick wall. She could have fought back, wrestled for control, given a real show of power- which would undoubtedly be matched, and then their fight would destroy the street, savagely smashing into storefronts and howling up and down the houses, elbows and magic and blood. All this she saw, in her imaginings- and she couldn't guess who might win, but she knew there were only losers among them now. One, forever trapped behind the veil of a coward too horrified to grant him any leash, the other exiled in the glass panes between living and dead, no matter how much you smashed her into the cobbles.
Dreamy blue eyes were suddenly sharp and present, and poor feeble Stuart slept, perhaps all the better for him. Darcey sneered at his other self, the pair of the exchanging vile and violent grins. The berserker, all covered in warpaint and gore, leering at her through blood with the same malice he had the day he had killed her. It was easier than she imagined to overlook that- someday, she would make them both pay, pay for what they did, but for now she was content to yield. Lucas owed her some chat.
She could read his attack in his changing poses as be pulled himself upright and braced, but she still skidded back, stumbling into a crouch but managing not to fall, shoes scraping the cobbles with a sound that put teeth on edge. She lived that sound-nails on a blackboard were the feelings she liked to impart to the world, bitter tasting fruit on the back of the tongue that you couldn't help choke up. She waved her arm and the connection severed, leaving her panting. Beads of sweat gathered on her brow and she grinned- the exertion momentarily beating sensation into the corpse limbs she wore under her façade. "Manners," she said, voice filled with laughter, none of it pleasant, but every bit amused, "Shall we not, my dearest murderer?" Straightening, she pushed hair back and grinned a hollow smile, expression a gaunt caricature of a grin but more sinister than the void it's owner walked with one foot always in. She touched the feathers and feelings of things even more base and broken than herself, most of them ancient, all of them dangerous. Blood, darkness and fury were the overtures of the song accompanying her every moment, playing invisibly in the background of the living world, unseen to all who inhabited it fully. "I thought you might be pleased to see me." She adopted a wounded expression, face moulding to almost comical extremes as her eyebrows puckered and lips dropped at the edges. "Are we not friends?" the words came out in a barely comprehensible hiss, through teeth clenched like castle gates.
broken bones and promises. tag Stu
The clouds were clearing from his mind. Nothing gave him clarity like panic–and Stu had been living in a state of mild anxiety for as long as he could remember. At this point, he wouldn’t know himself without that familiar buzz in his nerves that told him Everything Was Dangerous. It usually left his head in a cotton-wrapped pillowcase of muffled sound and sensation, but panic…panic was different. It was a honed, focus scalpel of electricity that cut through his senses and zapped him full of awakeness, awareness. His frightened, bulbous eyes wildly searched the face of the woman who’d haunted his nightmares for months, who crawled out of the back of his subconscious thoughts as she no doubt had her own grave. His mouth opened and shut, then stayed shut, tightened, and hummed with fear, a whimper that didn’t quite make it past the concealment of his scratched and faded, ashen lips.
“N–nuh–no–” His voice stuttered out at long last, hardly his own. You don’t have to deal with this. Yes I do. No, you really don’t…”N-nno…” Stuart shook his head like a snake, more of a negative oscillation rather than a proper, emphatic dismissal. It was as if he had become transfixed on the horrific visage before him, unable to take his eyes off her. Too afraid of what would happen if he did. Would she vanish, or would she kill him? He wasn’t sure which was worse at this point–reality or his nightmares given some semblance of closer flesh and fright…
Instinctively, he shifted more in front of the painting, fear tightening to a pinch at either temple–a pain which spiked at the insinuation Lucas did not take kindly to, the attack dog lunging at the end of his lead, the electric fence that was Stuart’s nervous system barely keeping the Other at bay. His throat tightened, his head spun. His shaking hands fell back to better shield his painting, and his ghostly face twisted with the effort of–staying. Of not fainting, or…worse, for all involved. Not just the two of them, this creature from Hell itself in any circle and the little boy lost, but for the street, the town…he means well, Lucas does, but he doesn’t, all the same, and I can’t…
You can. You really can.
“Y-you–really s…shouldn’t p-provoke…him, I–I’m s…suh–” his voice failed him, and Stuart tried to blink, tried to think, tried to keep it together. It was coming back to him, in pieces–pieces of her, the taste of her energy, her life, sour and wasted on his tongue. The most bitter combination of chemicals and communion wine. The first of its kind that he’d ever–savored…
Days like these, he craved for lightning to strike him again, strike him down this time. Finish what it started. If it had to begin with, he wouldn’t be here. She wouldn’t be here.
He wouldn’t have…
“I’m sorry, I’m so–so sorry,” he half-whispered, half-sobbed, his shaking hands finally extending in front of himself with automated protectiveness, not quite his own, anymore. “I’m sorry, I-I-I didn’t–m-mean…to…of course I meant to, we meant to…” He swallowed and shook his head again, harder this time.
“N-no, that’s not what I–I–you’re…you’re not here, you…you aren’t…real…” None of this had to be.
It doesn’t have to be, if you just…let me…
This one was truly useless. If it wasn't for his other half, the waif of a being would definitely be laying facedown in a ditch somewhere. He was like a little baby bird- so nervous, so fragile, and likely very easy to snap. She watched his jittery movements, twitching from place to place, transfixed like a rabbit in the gaze of a snake. He sensed, likely, that she was all the more dangerous now than she had been then, and well, who could blame him. When a tormentor you put in the ground came crawling back for more- the thought of it made even her feel uncomfortable, and she was made of iron, wilful and cold. Stu was made of smoke in cold air and fleeting inspiration, intangible and always a distraction away from oblivion. It was probably just as well he'd been let go: even now, she noted, slightly impressed, he was holding off the other one, though the cracks were evident, rushing across bone-white skin as the monster tried to claw it's way out of the boy. It seemed as if he was gaining better control over his more murderous side, a pity in Verbena's eyes. He'd never have made a good asset- that had been her assessment, in the final report she had filed on him. Unless they could find a way to scrub out "Stu" entirely, he would likely always be the default mindset. Not that Verbena weren't skilled at erasing people: bodies were stockpiled like medical supplies, waiting to be filled, blank spaces for whatever the scientists might need. It was just more difficult when there were two people occupying the same body. They had tried- she had tried- but it was just shy of impossible.
Clearly, her superiors hadn't liked that very much.
She laughed, a sound that fell flat among the stone buildings. "What, is he going to kill me again? I'm not sure it works like that anymore, you know," she said sourly, giving the experiment an acrid glower. She was fairly sure she would survive an encounter with Lucas this time around, what with her newly received gifts. Science truly was the gift that kept on giving. Giving questionable superpowers to morally dubious individuals. She couldn't deny the lure of wreaking havoc across the human world, but that would almost definitely land her back at verbena faster than you could say "tranquiliser darts and blanket sleep spell guns". She had to wonder if she, like Stu, had been permitted to escape as part of some grander experiment. If she had, she was certainly making their lives easier for them- all their eggs were now in one supernatural basket. And the little egg in front of her looked ready to crack, stammering apologies, pleading with the world to be less horrifying, trying to wish her away. She rolled her eyes. "Would you please shut up," she said, vicious emphasis as she thrust a hand towards him, palm showing, fingers hooked to jerk him backwards. Clenching the hand into a vindictive fist, she pulled towards her and forced him forwards, overbalancing him. She hoped she'd drawn blood with the impact.
"You may as well stop begging the world to be a nice place," she said, eyes glowing with pale fire as she began the now familiar process of leeching energy, an invisible transfer of life force taking place. "I'm here to personally remind you it's not."
Taniel: [is on the dash]
Darcey: [cartoon cloud of dust in the rough shape of her bc she has GONE]
broken bones and promises. tag Stu
Wrapped in the new scarf anons had given him (that Colin had rejected on whatever grounds; likely suspicion of potential murder-via-anon), the young artist (red-cheeked from the cold but otherwise resembling a color palette Tim Burton would’ve killed for–literally killed for) hummed to himself and continued painting, in oils, the colors of the Olympian sidewalk. The stores lit up with oranges and golds; the dull grays and bluish-blacks of the autumnal sky, and of course, the auburn trails of people and leaves that skittered in and out of his vision whenever he chanced a glance up and over his canvas. Dreamy blue-green eyes drifted to and from the storefronts to the canvas in question, as Stu shook shaggy reddish hair out of his face to better see–whatever and however he saw.
His focus; his quiet joy, was dedicated solely to the art at hand, going so far as to begin patching fabrics and texture into the art as he went along–gold foil for store windowpanes, parchment newspaper for cobblestone effects…he was careful to express exactly what he felt Olympia herself expressed, in all ways, shapes, and forms. Something he’d picked up the longer he spent around Taniel, perhaps–referring to cities as people and trying to both capture their souls and set them free…to share his peace with them…
His broken lines of thought blurred together, then split apart–bursting like fireworks or an exploding star that obliterated all other thoughts, that burnt out every reason, every small peace he’d pieced together…
His hands shook. The familiar voice resonated in his skull, thumping and humming from neuron to neuron. His paintbrush dropped and Stu shot away from his canvas and the voice at hand with a terrified stumble, bulging eyes unblinking and pinned to Darcey in nothing short of abject horror, his mouth opening in a silent scream that was cut off before it began, a sharp gasp and strangled sound like a rabbit in a snare the only things to escape. The only fallout audible from such a colossal and devastating explosion in his head alone…
“You,” Stu managed to whisper, and wondered if she was–real. Wondered if she was here. She couldn’t be. Could she? His eyes darted away, then back again.
He–it’d been so long. So long since he’d had an…an episode, and maybe…maybe she was real.
But she couldn’t be.
They couldn’t both be.
He knew her, but he didn’t quite know how–it was like something was coming out of the wreckage of his head; a shadow, pushing him back down, protecting him, shielding him like a smokescreen of sentinel-esque heroism…he fought it, briefly, trying to place her.
“The doctor,” Stu breathed, voice shaking as bad as his paint-streaked hands. “The dead doctor…”
It was gratifying to see his alarm, albeit only slightly. Revenge in sort would be over very fast, and very boring. No, she was going to draw this out, as vindictively as she could. The wide-eyed ratty thing had cost her everything- she was surprised to notice she was having an emotional reaction upon seeing him again unexpectedly- something she wasn’t about to act on, of course, but it took her a little off guard, how furious the site of him made her. Indignant rage boiled off and condensed into vicious spite, and she smiled and spread her hands out, one of them flickering with the idea of a skeletal jazz hand. “Surprise!” she said, amusing herself.
She glanced at his painting and considered ruining it briefly, before turning her attention back to Stu. “Yes, that would be me. I’m glad you recognised me. You know, considering the state I was in when you last saw me. Or was it Mr Hyde? You know how hard I always found it to tell you two apart.” A little barb, a snide reminder of the shared guilt. She didn’t much care which one of them she was dealing with- they were both equally terrible in her eyes.
“So did you miss me? I bet you did. I missed you nearly as much as I miss being alive. I miss that the most though. It’s amazing how much you take being securely tethered to the mortal realm for granted until you don’t have that anymore, you know?”
broken bones and promises. tag Stu
Darcey had ended up having to wander up to town- people were too sensible, most of the time, to end up in the woods on the Isle in the first place unless they were very well armed, and there was stiff competition for turf there in any case. After having been chased off by some extremely angry crow-people, she decided to try her luck further up the hill. Of course, that meant sheathing herself in a more human looking form, which was rather more effort than she felt like putting into a meal. People on the Isle were more accepting of different sorts than most other places, but a leering skull and falling apart physique might’ve tipped people off that she wasn’t a healthy individual to be around. She wasn’t exactly starving, but it would help to asses whether or not the big city had as many murderous birds as the woods did.
The town was unbearably twee- the shops all had ridiculous names relating to various supernatural puns. Apothecaries sat out in the open. Spellwork was rampant. It was bound to be increasingly unbearable in the run up to Halloween as well. She wandered through the living freakshow, unwilling to share even a slight deviation from her stern expression of utmost disgust and disapproval. It was like they all took some sort of satanic glee in their status as abominations- absolutely ridiculous.
The sight of a familiar face had Darcey instantly wondering if she was being tested by a higher power. Gods, scientists, demons- someone, somewhere was playing an elaborate practical joke on her. There he was, perched innocently outside some bookshop that was already decorated for Halloween- these people needed to get a grip- painting away. How nice for him. Her expression acidified instantly and she resisted the urge to just slam him into the pavement and walk away. The sliver of comfort was (assuming he wasn’t clued in to the fact that his escape was in all likelihood orchestrated as part of some larger experiment) the fact that Stu- or Lucas, whichever one was sat painting away- wasn’t liable to be expecting her either. She used this to her full advantage, sidling up to him and examining the painting. “It’s nice, but it could probably use a little bit more brutal murder- that’s your style, isn’t it?” she asked, smiling sweetly.
Verbena: The Video Game
[epilepsy warning & disturbing content warning]
I for one welcome our new kitty overlord
I was just following Lir from here and it made me look at his pop out blog dash thing and
I'm trained as a warrior, but I'm also a student, and you can find me stocking shelves at Paperfields at the moment.
the amount of sheer combative talent that does nothing more than tidy books up at Paperfields is truly phenomenal
literally every single person dennis has met so far has threatened to eat him. every single one.
Dennis? have friends? don’t be ridiculous.
sorchablackwood-tow replied to your post:“YOU CLODS DONT KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOINg” - Dennis,...
I choked on my water, thank u. O Dennidot.
it's funny bc its really dennis who hasn't even a single clue
“YOU CLODS DONT KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOINg” - Dennis, 2015
Rico: [introduces Murray to Dennis]
ten minutes later: a furious Dennis is licking twinkies and throwing them away just to spite Murray, who is looking on in silent horror
im passing out here so im gonna sleep goondight