|A day shy of a week ago Robotech Master was out on his e-bike when an SUV struck him and drove off. According to the most recent news available, he passed away from his injuries at around 2:00 this morning. I have kept some news up on his user page and, at this point, ask that anyone wishing to leave messages or tributes do so on either his talk page or another page that can be used for such things. His account here and all of the stories he has gifted the Shifti community with will be preserved in memoriam, as we also did for Morgan.|
User:Michael Bard/Untitled PaW story
|This story is a work in progress.|
|Author's Notes: New additions will start with a few words of green text. Keep in mind that significant revisions are possible, and sometimes necessary. The entire text is therefore in flux.|
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|Pig and Whistle story universe|
It was odd being full.
Coati didn't like being full and looking good. She didn't deserve it. But, she had demanded, as had the director, the other voice actors, and pretty well everybody else. Of course, only her opinion counted.
And she was happy. After shat Coati had done, she deserved it.
Of course, it had been kinda fun. Standing on the stage at the big con, listening to the cheers as she bounded on, letting her speak to the fans. It was an open question, given what Coati did, how much of her there was, but she knew everything that happened over the weekend was because of her.
And, however much she'd tried, she'd enjoyed it a little too. She'd even spent the waiting time between planes hunting spiders in the overhead girders. She'd forgotten how good they could taste as she'd crunched them between her teeth.
She salivated at the memory of the nice crunch spiders, they abdomens exploding in her muzzle like overripe grapes, their legs gradually stopping their wiggling as they finally realized they were dead.
Well, enough of that! The taxi driver was giving her strange looks, and they were almost at the bar anyway.
With that, the taxi jerked to a stop. "Forty-two seventy-five."
She snorted. Damn foreigners. Too many of them sneaking into the NAR these days. Fumbling through her belt pouch, the only thing she was wearing -- and did it every itch -- she pulled out two twenties, crumpled them in her fist before handing them over, and then slowly pulled out the rest in dollar coins and nickels. He glared, she hissed, poked some holes in his seat with her foot claws, and clambered out through the open car window.
Damn immigrants. Too high and mighty to say please, or thank you, or anything. Even when she first hired his cab.
She pulled a pocket watch out of the pouch. Getting close to supper. She should have just enough time to pop in, give Gordie some more for her tab, and get away before anybody who knew her showed up and recognized her. Or, even worse, recognized her from the con--
In and out then, and fast.
Clambering up a drain pipe, through the open window, and on to the bar. "Hey Gord--"
Why was the bar dark? And where was--
The lights flashed to brightness, and seemingly thousands of voices yelled out: "Surprise!"