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Ribofunk :: Филиппо Пол Ди
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"Mebbe so, boss. But that don't prevent us from shooting straight. 'Zact opposite, in fact. So let's just follow orders, if you don't want to get hurt."
"What do you intend?" asked Mister Michael's wife.
"We're taking you 'n' the Pee Em on a little vacation. You'll go free when the gummint listens to us and does somethin'."
A second terrorist spoke. "What about these friggin' vars?"
"Slag those sex toys," said the boss. "Make it quiet though. But save the one that helped us-it might come in handy again."
One of the men unholstered a pistol. Before anyone could react, it spat twice.
Gelatin capsules hit the morphs and burst, releasing lysis catalysts. In under a minute, the two morphs were single mingled puddle of thick slime, atop which for a minute floated the Moon Moth's tougher gemmed wings.
"Okay, folks-" began the leader.
Unnoticed, Little Worker had slyly extended an arm toward the bare ankle of Mister Michael's wife. Now, she pricked it deeply with a newly unsheathed razored claw.
Mister Michael's wife screamed.
The terrorist with unsteady nerves shot her through the eye.
Before the man's trigger-finger could relax, or any of the others could tighten theirs, Little Worker moved.
The part of her inheritance that was 30 percent wolverine took over.
The four intruders soon lay dead with their throats torn out, soaking the carpet with their blood where once the Bull and Lyrical had coupled.
Little Worker calmly licked the blood from her lips. She really preferred the taste of jelly. Wetting her palms repeat-
edly with her tongue, she meticulously cleaned the fur on her face. When she was done, she turned toward Mister Michael.
He had collapsed across the body of his wife and lay sobbing.
Little Worker gently approached. She touched him tenderly. He jumped.
"Mister Michael," said Little Worker, "everything is all right now.
"You and I are alone."
Cockfight
I will allow as how bein' a waste gipsy is not the most settled way of life, nor the easiest on the nerves. And it's surely no career for a married man-as Geraldine never tires of remindin' me.
But I ain't married. And I never listen to Geraldine.
Anyway, what's so rough about the life? First off, there's the constant travel. You got to learn to keep as little in your kit as a blind Bhopal beggar and generally stay as loose as a Bull's balls.
"Mebbe so, boss. But that don't prevent us from shooting straight. 'Zact opposite, in fact. So let's just follow orders, if you don't want to get hurt."
"What do you intend?" asked Mister Michael's wife.
"We're taking you 'n' the Pee Em on a little vacation. You'll go free when the gummint listens to us and does somethin'."
A second terrorist spoke. "What about these friggin' vars?"
"Slag those sex toys," said the boss. "Make it quiet though. But save the one that helped us-it might come in handy again."
One of the men unholstered a pistol. Before anyone could react, it spat twice.
Gelatin capsules hit the morphs and burst, releasing lysis catalysts. In under a minute, the two morphs were single mingled puddle of thick slime, atop which for a minute floated the Moon Moth's tougher gemmed wings.
"Okay, folks-" began the leader.
Unnoticed, Little Worker had slyly extended an arm toward the bare ankle of Mister Michael's wife. Now, she pricked it deeply with a newly unsheathed razored claw.
Mister Michael's wife screamed.
The terrorist with unsteady nerves shot her through the eye.
Before the man's trigger-finger could relax, or any of the others could tighten theirs, Little Worker moved.
The part of her inheritance that was 30 percent wolverine took over.
The four intruders soon lay dead with their throats torn out, soaking the carpet with their blood where once the Bull and Lyrical had coupled.
Little Worker calmly licked the blood from her lips. She really preferred the taste of jelly. Wetting her palms repeat-
edly with her tongue, she meticulously cleaned the fur on her face. When she was done, she turned toward Mister Michael.
He had collapsed across the body of his wife and lay sobbing.
Little Worker gently approached. She touched him tenderly. He jumped.
"Mister Michael," said Little Worker, "everything is all right now.
"You and I are alone."
Cockfight
I will allow as how bein' a waste gipsy is not the most settled way of life, nor the easiest on the nerves. And it's surely no career for a married man-as Geraldine never tires of remindin' me.
But I ain't married. And I never listen to Geraldine.
Anyway, what's so rough about the life? First off, there's the constant travel. You got to learn to keep as little in your kit as a blind Bhopal beggar and generally stay as loose as a Bull's balls.