Thwip
After shaking his three hours of sleep off and taking care of the morning business…
– I’d give my right buttock for something cleaner and more comfortable than this shrubbery and moss.–
… Thwip grabs the (pemmican and hard tack?) offered to him, gulps down enough to get him through to the next meal, and follows it with a mouthful of water. He gargles, swishes, and swallows because that would be a waste of water.
Squatting down in the camp, he unscrews the air canister from his rifle and pulls out the pump.
“Ifin ye all could tell t’ centers t’ not attack fir t’ next little while tat’d be good.”
He attaches the nozzle to the end and begins pumping. Fipp. Fipp. Fipp. A memory of his shooting instructor mocking him rises unbidden. “Thwip Fipp? Thwip the Fipper, we’ll call you.” He doesn’t suppress it, preferring to let his hatred of the man motivate him to finish the job more quickly.
“Tere used t’ be a small buildin’ in t’ paintin’ near here. I dowt it’d be anyting but mite be worth a minnit t’ look at. Mite be an emergincy exit ifin this place had inny. I ain’t seein’ nothin’ big’nuff t’ be a collapsed entrance t’ a fort hereabout but we kin take a poke at tat too.”
Fipp. Fipp. Fipp. Fipp.
“Ten we should hed up t’ t’ ruins, methinks. Less tere’s a better idea.”
– Thwip the Fipp. Fipp this you old melon-faced…–
Fipp. Fipp. Fipp. Fipp. Fipp. Fipp. Fipp. Fipp.
