"She'd be a lot better if she could be treated locally," said the Mayor, his tone as pointed as his words, and both of them as pointy as movable walls covered in many extremely pointy things.
"You've seen the clinic," said Simon. "I can just about fit a single Rawbones in there, if I move all the furniture into the corridor first and take care not to look at it directly enough times to cause full corporeality. There's no way I could treat a whole building."
"Your testimonial from Baba Yaga says otherwise," Chisel pointed out, pointedly.
"That's a single-room hut with a slight case of internal avian biology," Simon objected. "You're talking about what amounts to a living, breathing palace. We're not equipped for a job that big."
"Besides," said Mars. "Don't you have an entire staff of murderous janitors on payroll? You're telling me they can't deal with a few damp-gremlins getting into the secret passages?"
Chisel's scowl deepened, an expression almost akin to embarrassment creeping into the lines of his face. He muttered something, almost too low to hear.
Dash laughed.
"Your own building is afraid of your garbage-truck riding hit squad," he said. "That's too good."
Ongoing Verse: Microwave( Read more... )Ongoing Verse: The Powers That Be( Read more... )![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
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froodle
