The Things They Won't Do
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Orc rubs sleep out of his one human eye. "…Time is it?"
Howard shrugs. "Dunno. You were out like a light since yesterday. Maybe you should slow down on the brew."
Whether or not that's a good idea, Orc doesn't want to hear it. In fact, he doesn't want to hear anything, since every spare noise is an ice-pick in his hungover head and a kick in his nauseated gut. The thing downstairs is screaming and it makes Orc want to chuck all over the floor.
"Oh, you need to go toss some food at the thing," Howard adds. "It didn't get anything last night."
"Why didn't you feed it?"
"Gee, I don't know, Orc," Howard says with a barely-contained sneer, "maybe because if King Psycho down there were to get his creepy whip tentacle on me, I'd get flayed down to skin and bones before you could even get off the bed? We don't all get to be made out of rock, you know."
Orc glares, and Howard immediately turns pale and looks like he wishes he could take that last statement back. Orc considers punching Howard in the face, seriously considers it for several seconds, but he knows deep down he never would, so he sighs and hoists himself up off the bed. "Find a can of Spam or something and I'll toss it down there."
