Art's Conduct

Art's Conduct: Undignified =5=

= 5 =

Thump!

I swear...

Thump!

Seriously?

Thump!

"Knock it off, grandpa!" 

Direct, yet promising.

The wrinkled man gaped at me, and I gaped right back to mock him at similarly dated proportions, though wrinkled wouldn't fit his description. A dog with a severe case of mange would personally attain his personality of flakes on and in the valley of Wrinklevania if such questionable cases ever did exist on the plane of living, not the undead - and no, we're still not talking about certain golden-eyed, bunny lovers of fairy woodland here nor its Italian slash Transylvanian counterpart.

Oh, joy!

"Dian!" Lore gasped as she pulled me back to my seat and held my wrist tightly in her hands. 

I attempted to free myself, but she only tightened her hold which, I must say, was pretty strong. "Loh-ore," 

She only glared at me in response, while Mioun giggled, yes, giggled, to my right.

"What's so funny dunderhead?" I asked him, but he only broke off into more giggles.

Flipping through her copy of Neurosurgery: An Introductory Text, Lore rolled her eyes and released a huff of air. For a woman with a model figure, she sure did study like a nerd.

Hmph. Who was I kidding? She was a nerd. 

"You shouldn't be the one to say. Both of you managed to lose your part-time jobs with a minute to spare between both cases: one for more than a foolish mishap, while the other followed with his tail tucked in as if the foolish of the two had waved a barbecue-flavored bone during the one minute interval. If you two weren't equally ignoramus," She looked up from her book without moving her head. "then maybe you wouldn't be bashing coconuts at one another for the remaining 365 days of the year," 

"And, she strikes again! How many was it this time, Dian?"

Lore frowned disapprovingly when I held up one finger.

"Oh, I thought it had been more. I lost her after she included numbers," said Mioun, discontentedly, as if he roused diarrhea between the time the plane took off to now, and if he were a dog, he would have his ears down and tail tucked in between his legs. "Why must you never speak normally when you're frustrated? The previous time around you strung about twelve in two sentences,"

"No, I think it was two," I mused, entertained by the way his face contorted into a mix of trivial expressions to its opposite. Would it be simple to create all emotions into one? What a fleshy sculpture that would be.

I flushed with excitement just from the thought of manipulating the ridges of his face into a block of clay, or better yet, gum. What a challenge! I wonder if he would allow me to use his face as a model of interest. Hmm, would that put him at unease?

"Hey, are you trying to be on my side or hers?"

I tilted my head, acknowledging the noise, though half putting my mind to it. How could I ask him without placing myself on the front lines with an orced out - if that'd be a word for an enraged orc - Mioun on the opposing side of the throes of battle? Should I open with a joke? How about a gout of innocence? Sarcasm? Or, a heavy load of narcissism to make him feel very ill at ease from the exposition to resolution? 

Yeah, that last one should remain as a last resort. It would probably be the best of interest to start off with good humor and a sprinkle of innocence, especially on the eyes. The eyes would always be the gateway to emotions, unless I was made out of an ice cube which, on second thought, I should master for future dispositions.