[He gives a heavy sigh, as if utterly exhausted. His voice reflects that exhaustion.]
On one note, that old goat is trying to kill me. On the other, my mother is trying to help him. Apparently, he's more than a little content to let people think that a super extended disappearance--past an acceptable point--was part of the game plan. Mommy, why do you hate me? ... on second thought, don't answer. I'm okay with you lying to me.
That counts for the rest of you, oh kin of mine. Especially you, siblings. Jackasses.
Um, anyway, I have never been this tired before in my life. When master Ternaxius said that red folder assignments were intensive, apparently he actually meant 'absolutely fucking insane with a topping of bouncing off the wall at three billion miles per hour while hyped up on every hallucinogenic drug known to all the universes', but felt like conserving his breath for running in what would have counted as adorable, and goaty, if it hadn't been away from turquoise flesh-melty fire.
I hurt in places I didn't realize could have hurts. I think I'm going to go build a cocoon out of my bedding and sleep for the rest of my lifetime. Siphonei, you have a small chest; cut your hair and dye it blond-ish. Go sit in for me at the Observant testings, would you? I don't know if I'll be awake in five years to bother with it.
Speaking of cutting hair, I need to trim mine, I suppose. It's been singed to uneven. It's absolutely ghastly, really. I look like I should use eyeliner and cry about how my little sister's pants won't fit around my hips.
One day, I will warn people when I come and when I go. I'm not Siphonei, after all. I have a bigger chest.
And now, I die. Or pass out. Whichever won't have my father coming in to pout at me over terminology--and you know you do that, daddy, so don't come in to pout over me accusing you of it.
So kiss me again... y'know, there needs to be a countdown on how long it takes the voice posting function to figure out its ass from its head. Who do we talk to about that? I'll even bring a nifty little chart of some sort. I think I could involve the picture of a happy puppy to further my case. Hm... where are post-it notes when you actually need one? [The sound of the computer chair creaking, more clacking, and a bit of rustling.]
Anyway! What I was going to say... what was I going to say? Words, I suppose. Mother and Father are being ridiculously involved with each other, Xurxo is a twerp, and Siphonei is a girl, so I resort to talking to the lot of them over this computer network doohickey. [Pause.] Doohickey is one of those words, like thingamabob or nugget--it's just got such a dorky little flair to it...
Double anyway! Mother, Father, the other two, we should have one of those nights like we have when we go to the family reunions--you know, where everyone gathers together and swaps the songs, stories, and anecdotes that we don't share for a century because if we had to be around each other that frequently, another war of the omnipotently destructive beings would occur. [A pause.] Do you have to inflect that with capitalization? Like, War of the Omnipotently Destructive Folk, or something? I'm not sure... I should write to master Ternaxius and ask...
But anyway, we should do something like that! Maybe Xurxo and Siphonei, the poor social rejects, can prove that they're not completely socially incompetent. I'll stare intently at a baking pan until cookies of a satisfactory quality appear!
... we do have a fan in the kitchen, don't we? Burnt baked goods are somewhat atrocious...
Anyway, on other fronts, for the third time, Eirny, I'm coming to your house within the next thirty-eight hours. Ziggy has attempted to eat the collection of records I've been amassing; this, usually a declaration of war, will be reprieved of her only because her nose is wuggly.
On the fourth and final anyway, I'm going to go swimming tomorrow. Feel free to join me? [More clacking.] And if anyone can recommend a good CD, I find myself fascinated with recorded musical media. It's so clicky! [Clack, and then off goes the recording device.]
[There's music playing in the background; if one knows anything about 70s music, they'd recognize it as "Space Oddity" by Bowie. There's also a low whirring, like a hair dryer set on low.]
Sit still, Ziggy; I know you don't like it, but you won't like being wet all night even more, darling... [The whirring continues, and Jhieno sings along under his breath for a bar or two, eventually clicking off the hair dryer and cueing up the soft sounds of something being rubbed gently with a bit of cloth.] I wonder if I have a tiny hairbrush... Tom, that is my salad, get your wuffly little nose out of it!
[A pause, then a clearing of the throat.] It got connected sooner than I thought it would. Hello!
So, firstly, is everything alright, Adila? You left kind of suddenly... and I still have your and Aerowyn's rabbits. I'll hold onto them for as long as you need me to... even if Aerowyn's keeps trying to eat my salad. And he's going for the croutons. What kind of rabbit eats croutons? Jerk.
Anyway, I have two announcements!
One, rabbits swim rather spectacularly. I think, given enough time and training, I could train this pair to be contenders in the next Leporiadaec Olympics. 2010 all the way, baby! Black and white has one hell of a bunny paddle, and Brown floats very well. I took them swimming in the pond, had a little boat for them and everything... and yes, dad, I'll clean the pond. There aren't even any fish in it yet, why would you complain?
Secondly, Mother buzzed me today. He's going to be on the eleven o'clock PM train. He got distracted by a wildfire.
I don't think he's pleased about the pond, Father.
... damn it Tom, get away from my croutons! Anything but my delicious crunchy bits... [The sound of getting up from the computer chair, the button for turning the voice function off being the last thing to click.]
[A frustrated sigh.] What is it with the living space impaired and my shoes?! For the last time, odd and smelly man who lives in the cheap housing, and maybe even then on some government's check, those shoes are mine! You may not have them! You no take shoes! Leave me alone!
[A long moment of quiet except for steady breathing.] ... right then, sorry about that--it's just a long running frustration of mine. It's not even like my shoes are particularly special or anything; they're well-made, yes, but one would expect that of someone who could twist the material to their desire with a simple thought. What is it about my footwear that drives the begging types wild? Or have I simply been... fortunate... enough to find someone who has a peculiar and somewhat worrying interest in my feet?
... that's an unpleasant image, so I believe I will move in very quickly. [Clearing throat.] Father, Mother has lost his mind.
More than usual, even! He's... I don't even know what he was inspired by, but those watch sharks that he was installing to keep idiotic adventurers at bay or in belly now glow with an unnatural blue light and have teeth that look like those fish with the little head danglies in the very depths of the ocean. It's utterly inane, and don't get me started on what he's been equipping the suits of patrolling armor with. I'm pretty sure one of them is wielding a spiked mannequin leg...
Did you get him pregnant again? You were that loopy when you were with Xurxo, after all.
Speaking of Xurxo, I have a present for you, little brother! It's a reverse welcome back present! [Sounds of shuffling, and then bringing something that clicks and tacks at the microphone of his computer.] Look, it wants to see you very soon, runt! I'll come find you, okay?
In the meantime... well, it's good to be back. How have you been, Heather Sky?
She's such a sight for sore eyes... until she tries to drive her thumbnails into them, but I digress--that's water carrying the bits and pieces of the bridge downstream after she's rained lightning and fury on it. Siphonei; remember boys and girls, it sounds like Symphony, but instead of the dulcet tones of the Masters, it's more of the nails-on-the-chalkboard sounds of the Harpies and Furies on their periods.
I do so adore her.
But otherwise, there's a touch of business I should attempt to drum up and attend to--namely, I need some. Apparently, I'm not ugly enough to be Xurxo's housewife, so I need to immerse myself in an occupation of time that rewards with money before the little dearheart's breathing irritates me to the point that a pillow to the face until it ceases sounds like a good idea...
Then again, there's always the crabs. You can't go wrong with the delicious, vindictive crabs.
...right, right, work. ...perhaps, is there a newspaper I could prostrate myself before? I've written histories of civilizations before! I'm certain I could write about Laddie saving Tommy from the well, and then attempting to rip his face off--within in the spectrum of reason and truth, of course, unless it's one of those seedy papers, in which case I'll have to be a dirty, dirty boy with no journalistic integrity, but considering the circumstances?
I'm kind of fine with that.
In other news, I dreamed of kittens last night. They were flesh eating monsters, and in the midst of devouring a human city. It was pleasant, compared to some things.
I had a dream last night. I was a young child again, and my sister and I were walking along a set of railroad tracks while our parents meandered alongside, chattering of skies and summers and all the nine letter words that lay between k and u in the dictionary. I tripped over a well rusted spike, and when I rolled to my knees, a train was bearing down on me and my family was nowhere to be found. I believe it was a green engine, though I was at a rather disadvantaged view point.
Coincidentally, I believe my back is in a state known as 'aching'. Apparently, sleeping in a decently rough situation is not good for a humanoid body a touch on the side of tender and shiny-new (new car smell optional, I prefer soap). There needs to be a manual on humanity, I think. One of the first sections should be 'your fragile and squishy meat-coating will not appreciation a communion with floors, so please avoid them unless there's something more substantial than a jacket keeping you and the sweet, tile covered earth separated. The love of the ground and your back are strictly forbidden.'
Perhaps I should invest some time in writing said manual... I think I need a job--especially since I apparently can't count upon my own flesh and blood to extend a compassionate hand of support, filial adoration, and genuine selflessness.
Read also: Xurxo, you're a brat and I'm telling our parents you left me in the mildly chilled. Completely heartless. And I'm not even talking about the one in the jar that mother gave me to give to you--it's an alligator's, by the by, he said you didn't have it in your collection. Father sent gloves, and a few books--but that's beside the point and has nothing to do with the price of bread, butter, and a knife, now does it?
...and now I think I'm hungry. Where's that damned manual when you need it most? Perhaps if I find a time machine, I can inform myself of a month or so ago to start compiling research in order to figure out how to work this stupid thing...
My neck makes an interesting poppy noise when I swivel it, as an ending note.
This makes world number three, plane... two, unless I've lost track of time between the hours and the minutes. They're very tricky things you know, always sucking up the seconds and using them to express their worth. It's like seconds are in the bondage of the modern moment--like some sort of creepy power game, and I'd like to be off this subject because it's hurting me in this new-fangled soul thing I seem to have acquired.
Upon arriving, a man accosted me for my shoes. He was, however, wearing pants, so it's a marked improvement over the last world I was hunkered down on. I believe belts should be mandatory for the marginally mentally unbalanced, like some sort of public service crossbred with a common courtesy. He was, thankfully, easy enough to run away from. I believe he tripped on a sewer grating.
That, however, is trivial, and brings me about to the point I actually desired to make upon beginning this... whatever they call it here: I'm looking for someone. Unless this is a strange little place indeed, he should be easy to find.
He's very short--rather runt-like, to be honest--with silver hair and no voice to speak of. He's something that belongs to my genetic line, and I'm supposed to find him and keep him out of trouble. I even brought a bell to put on him, as a public service!
So; have you see my midget? Conversely; Runty, where are you?