“Here’s a recipe you might find interesting,” he said. “I call it thug stuffed with frozen chicken. Would you like to try some?”
They began circling each other, wading through a paw-deep swamp of impromptu buffet. Thumping his chicken, he hoped to imply what being hit by it might feel like, which wasn’t much, considering it had thawed noticeably and squelched. When Vaasi-Vee yelled that she’d run out of blenders, he stopped thumping and wondered about garnishing with something from the floor, and offering it in apology.
His concerns became academic when the animal staggered sideways after being slapped in the face with some cabbage wrapped in sticky-tape. With another lunge, Oscar belted him with his floppy chicken. With the fourth felled, he glanced around at the squalor, wondering what
