Brittany's face, glancing through the bars of a cage at the lost animal shelter, looks pissed. And that's coming from a cat who, in years gone by, has seen her respond to 13-year-old Santana Lopez's fits of pique with a shrug and a follow-up recommendation of imbibing large quantities of chocolate ice cream.
"Lord Francis Tubbington the Third," - Lord Tubbington knows this will be good; Brittany never whips out his full title unless it's to make a point - "busting you out of this joint for black-market-related activities is not how I wanted to spend my evening. Santana and I had plans and they did not involve this kind of pussy liberation."
Lord Tubbington rolls his eyes. Really, it's not his fault that he was caught up in a botched attempt to pawn off Brittany's iPhone in the park. It was her fault for choosing to put the phone inside the pocket of that winter jacket she likes to make him wear when he goes outside. If she didn't insist on making him her phone-bearer, he never would have run off to try to sell the damn thing to the alley cats that loiter by the middle school's swing set.
On top of everything else, Brittany now assumes all his jaunts are directed at one end goal: buying drugs. They both know that's only a euphemism for Lord Tubbington's out-of-control candy-bar-addiction. But Brittany is, as yet, unaware that the iPhone trade was all part of his elaborate plan to advance his cred so he can start a gang of his very own.
"You know there's only one appropriate punishment for this, Lord T."
Lord Tubbington is momentarily made hopeful by the contraction of his full title back into Brittany's more usual term of address. He swiftly loses that hope, however, once she re-opens her mouth.
"You're gonna have to do Santana's household chores for a full week."