My hands itch. That, in itself, isn’t strange. I’ve had itchy hands before. Chili usually does it. Dry skin, occasionally. Or after a really, really cold day, around when they’re finally warmed up.
This…goop. Now that, that is strange. I’ve never had this before. It looks like gel, of some sort, sticky translucent gel that reeks of slug and faintly glows like one, too. The skin around my wrists oozes the stuff. I can’t get rid of it. It doesn’t ever run out, no matter how often I wash it away. I’m stuck with it. For now.
I shouldn’t have eaten them slugs. They did something to me. I might have cancer, for all I know, or food poisoning. They’re clearly not meant to be edible. But tell that to a rumbling stomach. It was them or more of that brie- and trust me, one slice is more than enough where that stuff’s concerned.
They didn’t taste too bad, with a bit of wine. I’m surprised I haven’t seen them on a menu yet. If anything tastes better with wine, it’s worth enjoying. Gramps told me that. It showed in his damn gravy.
I can hear something moving up ahead. It sounds like, possibly, a steam engine throwing a tantrum. Metallic banging, heavy thumps, and a lot of heavy whining. My hands are really starting to itch now. Whatever it is, it’s got to stop soon. I can’t stand this much longer.
Oh but eureka! One of life’s pointless little questions has been answered: turns out there is an audience for whale CDs. Didn’t expect them to be so…chunky, but ah well. Once we’ve ditched Rapture, I expect to know why cats are so damn universally funny. There’s got to be an encore to this, surely?
It does make sense, though. The reason we never see people singing along to Moby Dick’s Greatest Hits: Vol 2. is because it’s always the wrong environment. You can’t get into the swing of it on the street.
Here in Rapture, plonked on the bottom of the ocean, you can sing along with total impunity. It’s the homeland of whale music, the place where it all begin. Sort of. Close enough.
This one’s a natural. I’ve never heard such tone, such emotion, such fluency in whale linguistics.
…I wish it’d stop.