02-17-2018, 08:49 AM
In the living room, Drake bent down to take out the current batch of organic kombucha from the refrigerator. To be honest, Drake really didn't like the stuff, but if it allowed him to be better friends with these ladies, then he was entirely on board with that. Unbeknownst to Drake, however, this particular batch of fermented tea had been combined with another recent health craze: raw water. Now one might question where 'raw water' might be found within the limits of Coruscant. You see, Madge had gone out of the way to buy a ticket to Costa Del Sol, where she'd grabbed a few gallons of the stuff from one of the island's springs.
Lots of people like raw water. They say it tastes superior, has added nutritive benefits, and is more ecologically sustainable. Maybe. But you know what else likes raw water? Giardia. Now Drake was not a biologist, but if he'd known that this untreated water full of nature's original shit poster had been used to create a batch of fermented drink, he would have thrown the entire philter out the window and donned a rebreather. As it stood, he downed several gulps of the stuff before a sharp, musty tang shot up into his sinuses.
The smuggler gagged slightly at first, before immediately spraying a cloud of the stuff over a nice reprinted painting of a New England shoreline. Coughing violently, Drake then tried to grab the wall for support, but grabbed a nearby ficus instead. Plant and man toppled over to the ground, where the dry foliage fell into a nearby space heater and caught on fire. Still coughing, and trying to sputter an apology, the one-armed man proceed to doff his jacket and try to smack the flames into submission. Instead, the poly-cotton blend of his clothes caught on fire instead.
By this time, the Tier Three Women's Suburban Club was in full panic mode, and Helen was rushing in from the kitchen with a fire extinguisher. Now, Helen weighs all of three hundred plus pounds, and Monika insisted that they purchase a commercial grade extinguisher for the club's apartment. When the immense Greek woman came bustling around the corner, she smacked the now flailing Drake in the face with the forty-pound flame retardant canister, breaking his nose instantly and causing him to reel backwards.
Hereupon, Drake smashed into one of the beautifully crystalline plate-glass windows of the third-floor apartment and fell out into the air. Before he hit the ground, the still flaming Drake Oneir was rammed violently by a flying garbage truck, flipped up over its canopy, and into the waste compactor bay. The truck driver, who had been arguing with his wife about whether or not their child should be allowed to have soda at a friend's birthday party, was completely oblivious to his new passenger. The entirety of the women's club, leaning out the window, tried to flag down the trundling vehicle as it pulled up to the curb and dumped six-hundred pounds of refuse on top of Drake's unconscious form.
Pyrrha, more given to action, had sprung out the door, down the steps and into the street, and arrived just in time to watch the garbage truck abruptly compress the its waste collection hopper into an almost entirely solid block. Now, unbeknownst to any of the people involved so far, the apartment building that shared an adjacent alleyway was home to a family of meth-makers who had particularly volatile brewing methods. Upon compression, the assembled waste chemicals in their trash made contact with Drake's still-smoldering corpse, and the back half of the garbage hauler exploded violently. As the driver of the truck staggered out of his cab and all the assembled onlookers gasped in horror, we can be left with one moral here:
Raw water is jank bullshit.
Lots of people like raw water. They say it tastes superior, has added nutritive benefits, and is more ecologically sustainable. Maybe. But you know what else likes raw water? Giardia. Now Drake was not a biologist, but if he'd known that this untreated water full of nature's original shit poster had been used to create a batch of fermented drink, he would have thrown the entire philter out the window and donned a rebreather. As it stood, he downed several gulps of the stuff before a sharp, musty tang shot up into his sinuses.
The smuggler gagged slightly at first, before immediately spraying a cloud of the stuff over a nice reprinted painting of a New England shoreline. Coughing violently, Drake then tried to grab the wall for support, but grabbed a nearby ficus instead. Plant and man toppled over to the ground, where the dry foliage fell into a nearby space heater and caught on fire. Still coughing, and trying to sputter an apology, the one-armed man proceed to doff his jacket and try to smack the flames into submission. Instead, the poly-cotton blend of his clothes caught on fire instead.
By this time, the Tier Three Women's Suburban Club was in full panic mode, and Helen was rushing in from the kitchen with a fire extinguisher. Now, Helen weighs all of three hundred plus pounds, and Monika insisted that they purchase a commercial grade extinguisher for the club's apartment. When the immense Greek woman came bustling around the corner, she smacked the now flailing Drake in the face with the forty-pound flame retardant canister, breaking his nose instantly and causing him to reel backwards.
Hereupon, Drake smashed into one of the beautifully crystalline plate-glass windows of the third-floor apartment and fell out into the air. Before he hit the ground, the still flaming Drake Oneir was rammed violently by a flying garbage truck, flipped up over its canopy, and into the waste compactor bay. The truck driver, who had been arguing with his wife about whether or not their child should be allowed to have soda at a friend's birthday party, was completely oblivious to his new passenger. The entirety of the women's club, leaning out the window, tried to flag down the trundling vehicle as it pulled up to the curb and dumped six-hundred pounds of refuse on top of Drake's unconscious form.
Pyrrha, more given to action, had sprung out the door, down the steps and into the street, and arrived just in time to watch the garbage truck abruptly compress the its waste collection hopper into an almost entirely solid block. Now, unbeknownst to any of the people involved so far, the apartment building that shared an adjacent alleyway was home to a family of meth-makers who had particularly volatile brewing methods. Upon compression, the assembled waste chemicals in their trash made contact with Drake's still-smoldering corpse, and the back half of the garbage hauler exploded violently. As the driver of the truck staggered out of his cab and all the assembled onlookers gasped in horror, we can be left with one moral here:
Raw water is jank bullshit.
C O L D