taxonomites | [accidental audio--> intentional audio]

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[accidental audio--> intentional audio]

It wasn't until near noon on St. Patrick's Day (or what passed for it) that Paul actually spoke words to anyone-- he'd been hunkered down in his clock-shop-home, per his words to Dawn about not intending to do anything stupid, and as such hadn't been talking to anyone, just working on sketched plans and lists for how he intended to refurbish the rookery.

At lunch though, he'd decided to make a quick run to the store for the things he couldn't hatch. As usual, he had no intention of paying the Extra for them-- he simply took the supplies he'd wanted, put them into a bag, and started out the store.

As was also usual, the Extra cashier started to politely ask him about paying.

And, as was also usual, Paul said back over his shoulder, "Bite me, you sorry little robot."

....except that what came out his mouth was more like... "Ah, feck off, I'm only after takin' what's needed."

Paul stopped in his tracks. For one disconcerting second, he was sure either Connor or Murphy were somewhere in the store, and he spun around, looking for them.

But no. He had said that. He had said that.

"...did I myself go sayin' that, now?-- oh feck-- oh bloody shite--"

There was a silence for about fifteen seconds that somehow managed to be supremely angry.

Then Paul punched on his tablet-- realized it was already on-- of fucking course-- and snapped, "Does anyone else be sayin' this blarney, or have the 'amsters only arsed up me own gob?"

OOC: Paul's been glitched to speak in an Irish accent today (an over-the-top, stereotypical Irish accent at that). Taunt away.

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"..."

Paul glowered down at the screen and Cain's expression and jabbed a button to switch over to visual mode.

"Aye, g'wan an' gawk, then! Like as not the 'amsters are having a good laugh, so they are."

"Oh," Cain says, holding up both hands to show the palms in a universally placating way. "I'm not laughing. ...I just have no idea what you're saying half the time."

...the disturbing idea crosses his mind, that this phenomenon might somehow be contagious. "Why would the hamsters make you talk nonsense?"

...

"Don't answer that. Don't know why I asked." And more importantly, his expression seems to say: "Are you all right?"

Paul rakes his fingers through his hair. He opens his mouth to answer, then clicks it shut with a little audible snap and instead starts typing rapidly on the tablet's interface.

The typing comes out normally, but is frustratingly slow. Paul breaks off after a second, and says-- trying to focus, to make the words come out the way he means them.

"Saint Pat's patron saint of the blessed Irish, a fine lot of boyos if ever there were such-- an' w- we- we--"

A vein on Paul's forehead is starting to pound. He grits his teeth. "THEY talk somethin' like this, so they do."

Wyatt watches, and then reads, all with an air of this being completely...day-to-day business, nothing extraordinary, nothing to see here, folks. And maybe some part of him points out that it really isn't all that strange, by and large, come to think of it.

...just think of how the good people of Rigmarole talk.

And then it finally hits him, what it would be like to suddenly spout rigmarole like the most nonsensical rigmarole in all of Rigmarole.

"All right. So what you're saying is, this is a compulsive act." Just checking, to be sure. "And it just up and started for no good reason?"

"Aye, an' likely a glitch, a fine how d'ye do from our furry mates," Paul said, grimacing at every single word that escaped his lips. Jesus Christ, his voice even sounded cheerful, like a goddamn movie Irishman who was saying things like 'begorrah!' and other such bullshit that even Connor and Murphy would arch a brow at.

Paul switched back to typing. It made him feel less homicidal.

Paul breaks off, staring once more around the store, almost willing Murphy to appear, so that Paul can punch him, or hug him, or something, Murphy or Connor, it doesn't matter which, the assholes, this is making him pissed off at them when they're not remotely responsible and it's also making him miss them and how the fuck does that make any sort of sense?

Deep breath. Paul closes his eyes and counts to ten, then types the rest of what he was going to say.

It made sense, the way glitches made sense (which wasn't much, but enough that your mind could say 'fuck it' and just play along).

The way Cain saw it; and he only rarely saw things in this particular light; there was only one thing to do.

"Sounds to me like you could use a drink and someone to curse at."

Paul laughed helplessly, and kicked once at the base of his shopping cart for good measure.

"Oh aye, as bloody useless as tits on a bull, like, when me speech's as banjaxed as a poof pullin' a queer bit of skirt!"

Paul stopped, closed his eyes, and tried to decipher what the fuck he'd just said. He took a breath.

"Right. Could do with a Cargill, so I could, but ye'll not be after understandin' a speck of me cursin'-- Jaysus knows I meself do not."

Tits on a bull, he gets. Not much point. ...but 'banjaxed'? 'Poof' doing what with a skirt?

But he leaves it be.

"I'll meet you at that place we went to last time."

Paul just nods-- he doesn't really trust to his words, it's like a stupid comedy gone wrong, something like Groundhog Day but with an Irish twist, and he'd just as soon talk as little as possible.

He ends the call with a button click, and grimly returns his attention to his shopping things, shouldering his 'purchases'.

Home, and then to the bar...

Paul avoids speaking as much as he can, easy enough in a city full of Extras really, and slips in scanning those inside for Cain even as he heads for the counter. He wants vodka-- he always wants vodka.

"Pint o' Guinness, mate," is what comes out his mouth, and Paul groans.

Ya sound ridiculous. [You're one to talk, Jayne.]

"Oh, ask me arse," Paul growled. "Who was after dyin' and makin' you Pope?"

"I ain't got a clue what you just said, but I'm bettin' it weren't no poetry."

"Aye, g'wan an' figure that one out all by your ownself, did ye? Jaysus, Joseph, an' Mairee, he's after being clever, so he is."

(That's right, Paul. Piss off the man-ape-gone-wrong.)

"'Least I ain't soundin' like some fool what got half his tongue cut out." He smiled smugly. Take that!

"No, an' you don't-- ye manage to sound like one with yours right still in your mouth, so you do."

Oh, this is going to go splendidly.

"Listen here, ya gorram ta ma de hun dan*! You keep it up an' I'll be payin' you a visit to introduce my fists to your face! But seein' as how you're a mighty ugly fella, someone musta already beat me to it!"

[ta ma de hun dan = mother humping son of a bitch]

"Oh, go an' jump off a short pier in a deep loch, why don't ye!" Paul said, and then glanced slightly worriedly at the tablet, checking that he was still on audio only.

He didn't really know who he was talking to, but on the odds it was someone who could make good on that throat? Best they didn't have a face to go with their idea.

Jayne's fingers scrambled for the map feature. "Who are ya? I'm gonna come'n beat the tar outta you!" He didn't take being insulted lightly, and was ready to give this guy a piece of his mind via a fist to the face.

Aaaand that seemed like a good point for Paul to hastily terminate the call. Ticked off as he was at being made to speak in an Irish accent-- a BAD Irish accent-- there was no reason to get someone who sounded like a concussed Clint Eastwood on his ass aiming to beat him up, either.

[That's...new. Though not really that much worse than Mr. Scott, really.]

It would seem that you are, in fact, the only individual so afflicted.

"An' a right comfort it is to me bleedin' soul."

[...that was sarcasm, right?]

Unfortunately, I do not believe that I possess the necessary knowledge with which I might assist.

"You an' the Pope also would be as useful as a chocolate teapot-- it's a bleedin' glitch, there's nowt to do but wait the hoors out."

[...what?]

Then I offer my apologies.

Paul sighed. "Aye, and thank ye I suppose, for all the good it does. May the seven terriers of hell sit on the spool of the hamsters' breasts and bark in at their soul-cases."

[Is that even English?]

I am afraid I do not follow.

"So, an' that makes two of us. Bloody hamsters!"

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