[ Vezda was planning on a nice, quiet midnight snack. Just him, the pantry, and the hunger in his stomach that needs sating.
He aimlessly fiddles around in the kitchen until it is built: clawed in his metal left hand is a cold, dense wad of leftover spaghetti. It's topped with a liberal dollop of mayonnaise, some crushed doritos, and the cherry on top: not a cherry, but a pickled tomato.
On each of his clawed fingers there is also a hot dog, similarly cold, speared on his fingertips like he's about to roast them over a campfire.
And in his right hand is a nice mug of tea. Because he is, after all, a civilized man.
When he actually enters the lounge to eat, though, he wasn't expecting company. So he finds himself standing dead in the doorway. ]
time for food crimes, baybee
He aimlessly fiddles around in the kitchen until it is built: clawed in his metal left hand is a cold, dense wad of leftover spaghetti. It's topped with a liberal dollop of mayonnaise, some crushed doritos, and the cherry on top: not a cherry, but a pickled tomato.
On each of his clawed fingers there is also a hot dog, similarly cold, speared on his fingertips like he's about to roast them over a campfire.
And in his right hand is a nice mug of tea. Because he is, after all, a civilized man.
When he actually enters the lounge to eat, though, he wasn't expecting company. So he finds himself standing dead in the doorway. ]
Uh.