Encounterlogs
Coltons Odd Encounter Sr Sophie 250302
Colton, amidst a deteriorating weather condition characterized by constant hail, surveys an old trailer park with the intent to replace its worn porch. His nocturnal assessment is hindered not just by the hail but by an alarming increase of wildlife activity, including pairs of yellow eyes in the darkness, a battalion of bats, and insects that seem more aggressive than usual. The situation escalates quickly to a surreal confrontation where Colton finds himself attacked by these creatures, leading him to take drastic measures. In a desperate act to ward off the animals, he douses himself in gasoline at a nearby gas station, a tactic that successfully scares away his assailants. This unusual standoff concludes with the creatures retreating, leaving Colton in dire need of a cleanup from the gasoline and potentially a rabies vaccination.
Sophie, meanwhile, encounters her own peculiar challenge not of the physical but of the moral kind, tempted by gummy bears loaded with THC left by Colton, despite knowing they could heavily sedate her. Amidst her conundrum, she receives a call from her cousin Grant, seeking her intervention in a matter involving a mercenary captured by their family. Grant's strategy to forcibly recruit the mercenary into Sophie's affiliations within the Venetian Accords and then dispose of him is flatly rejected by Sophie, who suggests a less involved method of dealing with the problem. The conversation, strained and revealing familial and personal tensions, ends acrimoniously with Grant's insult towards Sophie's loyalties and choices. The story wraps with Sophie, affected by the THC from the gummy bear leg she consumed, contemplating a rest on her couch, inadvertently ignoring the immediate fallout from her conversation with Grant and the broader implications for her family and affiliations.
(Colton's odd encounter(SRSophie):SRSophie)
[Sat Mar 1 2025]
At the porch of a double-wide trailer
This double-wide trailer has certainly seen its better days. Likely built in the 80s, the exterior has been updated and upgraded a few times, as evidenced by the melding of different architectural concepts. A cracked and slightly uneven sidewalk, the bright yellow heads and dark green leaves of dandelions poking through, leads up to a covered porch. The awning is a cheery, sunny yellow, trying to add a little pop of color and life into an otherwise bland sort of building. The porch and home is elevated, three creaky wooden steps leading up to the dark blue painted door. Who knows what sort of wildlife is lurking in the crawlspace beneath the home itself.
It is night, about 13F(-10C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's hailing. There is a waxing crescent moon.
(Members of an opposing faction or subfaction are after your target. They must escape them or fight them off for long enough for their allies to arrive and help keep them protected.
)
It's the middle of the night, and still hailing to boot, which means whatever property damage Colton is assessing for in the old, run-down trailer is only about to get worse. The on-and-off bouts of hail have served to pelt the trailer - and Colton - with the unapologetic fury of a thousand icy rocks, and the ground beneath his feet has long turned to icky slush and gross mud. Ew.
At least all the moisture is good for the creepy crawlies that creep and crawl. Worms thread through soil, caterpillars munch on leaves, and the crawlspace thrives with all manner of gross insects. In fact, there may just be more than just gross insects down there. A pair of gleaming yellow eyes peer out at Colton from the darkness, watching.
Well, the trailer park had its fair share of nearly-feral cats and dogs, and surely anything intelligent enough to be a real danger wouldn't attack Colton here in the seat of his family's power. He keeps half an eye on it anyway, but the Moore's attention lies mostly on the porch and its lightly-rotted wood panelling.
"Just going to rip the whole damn thing out," he mutters. "Place is cursed, anyway." He steps down those creaky few steps, ducking down to dig into the soil with a finger. Hopefully the place would still be suitable for setting up the replacement. Who knows what'd managed to flush down into the soil in the last few decades? And of course it was /his/ problem. He wasn't a dirtologist!
The place may or may not be cursed. Anything would look cursed when viewed at two in the morning, in the dead of night, without the light of the moon, and with plenty of hail and rain and thunder and whatever else the fucking weather is up to. Get a grip, weather. It's not surprising the amount of creatures that would be taking refuge in the crawlspace; as Colton watches - or non-watches, as the case may be - there's another pair of yellow eyes joining the first in the cramped space, both sets now fixed on him, watching.
A flapping of wings is heard in the shadow of the trees behind him. If Colton turns to look, he might be able to spy a bat or two, hanging upside down from a branch. Kind of cute, actually, if one doesn't mind the rabies.
A line of beetles attempts to crawl their way up Colton's leg, stark in contrast against his jeans. Does his night vision even come with color?
Perhaps this isn't the best time to be surveying the trailer, considering the sheer amount of insects and/or wildlife out to play. But again, Colton is far from squeamish. He's a big boy. He can handle being crawled on, right?
There's another flapping of wings behind him. Somehow, in the last five minutes, the number of bats has /really/ multiplied. There's about a dozen of them hanging there now, just... watching. Watching. Watching.
Until they aren't anymore. A beat, noisy with the pattering of hailstones, certainly none of those silent, calm-before-a-storm beats when it's already storming, and everything around him bursts into motion.
Well, the bugpocalypse isn't what Colton had expected. Critters were supposed to get /less/ active with cold like this. He lets out a quiet growl as he slaps at things whizzing around him, then gives up and paths up onto the roof of the outdated trailer. It's probably the sturdiest part of the whole building, reinforced to serve as a second storey. It was the whole cause of his problems, really; the dump could have safely gone on being a dump if the insurance companies hadn't kicked up a fuss, and now the whole thing had to go. He takes a few steps back towards the edge of the roof, peering down at the porch, where the swarm of nocturnal life had frenzied. What the hell was going on down there?
Oh, no, he's not getting away /that/ easily. The beetles, courtesy of having been settled comfortably along his jeans, go with him as he paths, and the swarm of bats that had left the nice canopy they were hanging under now swirls around like a bat-tornado - batnado, if he will - before rising higher to beeline straight for him, little fangies glinting in whatever light manages to find them.
And then the cats are behind him - he definitely didn't hear them move. Maybe they pathed too. There's two identical, pitch-black ones, both swiping at his heels in unison right as a sharp pinch manages to be felt at his shin - beetle mandibles piercing through his jeans in an attempt to cut through his skin. Or maybe they didn't need to pierce through his jeans at all to do that, ratty as they are. Moth-butten to beetle-bitten. The swarm of bats, eerily noiseless, fly into him, obscuring vision and scratching skin. He better get rabies shots after this.
If nothing else, the lack of hesitation on their parts does make it clear he's not just dealing with senseless animals, if that much wasn't clear already.
"Get the fuck off me," Colton yells, knocking bats and beetles away from him with the swipes of his hands. Fuck this. Fuck all of this; he knew how to get these motherfuckers off. He breathes in - and woe be unto those beetles foolish enough to think crawling inside that chasm within him is a good idea - and leaps from the roof of 11 Dandelion to the administration building on Cromwell. He casts a frantic eye around, straining his night vision to spot it exactly, but it's only right across the road - Clay's gas. He jumps again, pathing from midair to reappear right in front of one of the fuel pumps. He forces his eyes shut, grabs the nozzle and douses himself in gasoline, surely racking up a considerable bill he'll have to pay off later.
He doesn't light himself up, yet. He really doesn't want to do that; burns take the longest to heal. There's a reason you burned demons to kill them. Hopefully everything would just fuck off from being doused in gas in the first place.
The flapping of wings is /right behind/ him, the sky darkening further with the amount of bats that follow Colton to the gas station, and the cats seem eerily in tune with his every motion, skipping from shadow to shadow during his sojourn across the street. Some of the beetles got knocked off by the swipe of his hands - some remain, one or two that had managed to embed their mandibles right into the flesh of his leg. There's a subtle heat spreading through it, distracting and itchy, that he really doesn't have the time to pay attention to while he's dousing himself in gasoline. What a power move, honestly.
All of them pause at the threat, the stench of gasoline sharp and dizzying in the air, the flapping of wings all around him.
A long pause, as though there's some sort of unheard communication going on around him. Nothing moves.
And then, simultaneously, they slink back into the shadows as one, beetles spreading their wings and flying off the same as the bats taking to the trees once more. The cats are nowhere to be seen.
Colton needs a shower and a half.
("The Golden Shadow's Betrayal")
It's a good thing Colton put out those Snickers bars to lure Sophie away from his lemon and lime candies which are almost guaranteed to hit her like a shot of horse tranquiliser. She knows this, surely, and yet the temptation lingers. Worry not - her phone goes off in her other hand as she idles about the kitchen, munching chocolate. It's her cousin Grant; one of the those involved in the non-banking branch of the family business. It's not as if they've never spoken, either, but he's not the type to call just for a social chat, and definitely not at this hour. Something must be up.
Or... She could ignore it. Those gummies look so good. Those lemon flavoured ones and their topaz glow... the way the kitchen light filters through that gummy matrix, casting a golden shadow. It would be a betrayal of Colton's trust. And yet... he did put them in /her/ fridge. And there are so many.
The Snickers do be hitting just right. But it /is/ just one of those days where you just kind of want to drift away from the world when the hail's hitting her windows - reinforced glass, by the way - and the roof of her penthouse apartment, and, well, c'mon, it's a Friday night. Saturday morning, if we're being pedantic. Sophie considers the gummies for very long moments, even as her phone starts to buzz - ugh - and, despite knowing better, reaches out to pluck One Whole Gummy out of the fridge. She's not going to eat it all, of course. That would be silly.
Sophie answers the phone with a, "Yeah?", tucking it between her ear and shoulder while she pinches the gummy bear between thumb and forefinger, going over second thoughts and then third thoughts and then landing right back on first thought. Chomp, Mr Teddy loses a leg, before it goes back into the fridge. A yummy, lemon-flavored leg. "What's up, Grant?"
Well, to be clear, those are two-ounce jumbo gummies, so just that plump little bear foot is about the size of one normal little gummy bear. But Sophie isn't a coward, right?
"Sophie," Grant murmurs. He's got a stronger New England accent than most of her cousins, almost gratingly-so. "You're involved with the Venetian Accords these days, right? Tried reaching Aristotle first, but that lazy bum isn't picking up. Never can rely on him. So; we got one of those shithead mercenary types at one of our safehouses. Guy really thought he was the first person to come up with pathing through a vault door." There's a sound of skin on skin and a heavy thud in the background. It's not the fun kind; the merc's probably getting used as a punching bag. "Anyway, we don't wanna start no shit with the Accords, and we can't crack his Sanctuary while he's still getting juiced. So my thinking is - we want you to come by, flip him from these Shadow motherfuckers into your own little groupy-group, right? Then you kick his ass out and leave him to us. Maybe we cut out his tongue and leave it as a snack for them wolves you running with." There's only a sliver of judgement in his tone, there. That's pretty restrained, for a Wilson. Hopefully whoever this captive is can't hear the plan, though.
Sophie is definitely not a coward. How bad can one gummy bear be?
... she's probably going to find out.
She settles with her Snickers at the kitchen island, listening with a furrowed brow while she noms her chocolate, a bored look on her face as she stares out the window. Hopefully the hail isn't going to hit her plants out there on the balcony hard. That would be a real shame, even if she'd moved most of them to beneath the shade. Never know with wind and all that - she'll probably have to go out there once the sun is up to take a look, and hope the weather's eased up by then.
By the time Sophie's finished with her internal rambling, Grant's finished with his external rambling, and she pretends to give it some thought. "Yeah, no thanks," comes the easy answer. "Not only did he probably hear all of that-" You fucking dumbass, she doesn't say out loud, but the pause in between her words makes it loud and clear, "-but that's too much effort for a random guy. Just beat him up and put one of the ritualists in charge of making him really want a vacation somewhere sunny or something and slash his throat in Australia or wherever he goes." That doesn't go against Sanctuary, right? That's probably just as much effot, honestly, but Sophie doesn't have to do it. "And that way you can take a vacation too, pass it off as work. That sounds like a good time, doesn't it, Grant?"
Now that Sophie thinks about it, that /does/ sound like a great time. She leans forward against the island, exhaling out a little sigh. All the heat of her apartment doesn't make up for the lack of sun at all. Maybe Sophie should look into a nice little vacation on the beach, too...
"He's unconscious," Grant scoffs, audibly insulted that some little girl thinks she can tell him how to do his job. "I do this for a living, Sophie, Christ. You think the rest of your family's stupid or something? Just 'cause you're Grandmother's favourite don't actually make you all that special. Which one of us actually managed to activate, again?" Classic Grant. Classic Wilson, really. Get defensive and get mean. "Whatever. Fuck yourself, then. We'll deal with it ourselves, since you too busy sucking Moore dick to protect your actual family's assets. Fucking nerve of you." The call ends abruptly, some instinct in the elder, scummier cousin advising him to cut off the rest of his tirade. No doubt this would crop up into drama with the other Wilsons. Maybe Sophie's father would make a show of standing up to protect his little girl, but all he had was bluster.
Sitting down on the couch is beginning to seem like a very compelling idea, though, as the mammoth amount of THC in the Moore's edibles begins to pass from the Wilson's liver to her brain. Time for a very nice lie-down, indeed...
Sophie, meanwhile, encounters her own peculiar challenge not of the physical but of the moral kind, tempted by gummy bears loaded with THC left by Colton, despite knowing they could heavily sedate her. Amidst her conundrum, she receives a call from her cousin Grant, seeking her intervention in a matter involving a mercenary captured by their family. Grant's strategy to forcibly recruit the mercenary into Sophie's affiliations within the Venetian Accords and then dispose of him is flatly rejected by Sophie, who suggests a less involved method of dealing with the problem. The conversation, strained and revealing familial and personal tensions, ends acrimoniously with Grant's insult towards Sophie's loyalties and choices. The story wraps with Sophie, affected by the THC from the gummy bear leg she consumed, contemplating a rest on her couch, inadvertently ignoring the immediate fallout from her conversation with Grant and the broader implications for her family and affiliations.
(Colton's odd encounter(SRSophie):SRSophie)
[Sat Mar 1 2025]
At the porch of a double-wide trailer
This double-wide trailer has certainly seen its better days. Likely built in the 80s, the exterior has been updated and upgraded a few times, as evidenced by the melding of different architectural concepts. A cracked and slightly uneven sidewalk, the bright yellow heads and dark green leaves of dandelions poking through, leads up to a covered porch. The awning is a cheery, sunny yellow, trying to add a little pop of color and life into an otherwise bland sort of building. The porch and home is elevated, three creaky wooden steps leading up to the dark blue painted door. Who knows what sort of wildlife is lurking in the crawlspace beneath the home itself.
It is night, about 13F(-10C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's hailing. There is a waxing crescent moon.
(Members of an opposing faction or subfaction are after your target. They must escape them or fight them off for long enough for their allies to arrive and help keep them protected.
)
It's the middle of the night, and still hailing to boot, which means whatever property damage Colton is assessing for in the old, run-down trailer is only about to get worse. The on-and-off bouts of hail have served to pelt the trailer - and Colton - with the unapologetic fury of a thousand icy rocks, and the ground beneath his feet has long turned to icky slush and gross mud. Ew.
At least all the moisture is good for the creepy crawlies that creep and crawl. Worms thread through soil, caterpillars munch on leaves, and the crawlspace thrives with all manner of gross insects. In fact, there may just be more than just gross insects down there. A pair of gleaming yellow eyes peer out at Colton from the darkness, watching.
Well, the trailer park had its fair share of nearly-feral cats and dogs, and surely anything intelligent enough to be a real danger wouldn't attack Colton here in the seat of his family's power. He keeps half an eye on it anyway, but the Moore's attention lies mostly on the porch and its lightly-rotted wood panelling.
"Just going to rip the whole damn thing out," he mutters. "Place is cursed, anyway." He steps down those creaky few steps, ducking down to dig into the soil with a finger. Hopefully the place would still be suitable for setting up the replacement. Who knows what'd managed to flush down into the soil in the last few decades? And of course it was /his/ problem. He wasn't a dirtologist!
The place may or may not be cursed. Anything would look cursed when viewed at two in the morning, in the dead of night, without the light of the moon, and with plenty of hail and rain and thunder and whatever else the fucking weather is up to. Get a grip, weather. It's not surprising the amount of creatures that would be taking refuge in the crawlspace; as Colton watches - or non-watches, as the case may be - there's another pair of yellow eyes joining the first in the cramped space, both sets now fixed on him, watching.
A flapping of wings is heard in the shadow of the trees behind him. If Colton turns to look, he might be able to spy a bat or two, hanging upside down from a branch. Kind of cute, actually, if one doesn't mind the rabies.
A line of beetles attempts to crawl their way up Colton's leg, stark in contrast against his jeans. Does his night vision even come with color?
Perhaps this isn't the best time to be surveying the trailer, considering the sheer amount of insects and/or wildlife out to play. But again, Colton is far from squeamish. He's a big boy. He can handle being crawled on, right?
There's another flapping of wings behind him. Somehow, in the last five minutes, the number of bats has /really/ multiplied. There's about a dozen of them hanging there now, just... watching. Watching. Watching.
Until they aren't anymore. A beat, noisy with the pattering of hailstones, certainly none of those silent, calm-before-a-storm beats when it's already storming, and everything around him bursts into motion.
Well, the bugpocalypse isn't what Colton had expected. Critters were supposed to get /less/ active with cold like this. He lets out a quiet growl as he slaps at things whizzing around him, then gives up and paths up onto the roof of the outdated trailer. It's probably the sturdiest part of the whole building, reinforced to serve as a second storey. It was the whole cause of his problems, really; the dump could have safely gone on being a dump if the insurance companies hadn't kicked up a fuss, and now the whole thing had to go. He takes a few steps back towards the edge of the roof, peering down at the porch, where the swarm of nocturnal life had frenzied. What the hell was going on down there?
Oh, no, he's not getting away /that/ easily. The beetles, courtesy of having been settled comfortably along his jeans, go with him as he paths, and the swarm of bats that had left the nice canopy they were hanging under now swirls around like a bat-tornado - batnado, if he will - before rising higher to beeline straight for him, little fangies glinting in whatever light manages to find them.
And then the cats are behind him - he definitely didn't hear them move. Maybe they pathed too. There's two identical, pitch-black ones, both swiping at his heels in unison right as a sharp pinch manages to be felt at his shin - beetle mandibles piercing through his jeans in an attempt to cut through his skin. Or maybe they didn't need to pierce through his jeans at all to do that, ratty as they are. Moth-butten to beetle-bitten. The swarm of bats, eerily noiseless, fly into him, obscuring vision and scratching skin. He better get rabies shots after this.
If nothing else, the lack of hesitation on their parts does make it clear he's not just dealing with senseless animals, if that much wasn't clear already.
"Get the fuck off me," Colton yells, knocking bats and beetles away from him with the swipes of his hands. Fuck this. Fuck all of this; he knew how to get these motherfuckers off. He breathes in - and woe be unto those beetles foolish enough to think crawling inside that chasm within him is a good idea - and leaps from the roof of 11 Dandelion to the administration building on Cromwell. He casts a frantic eye around, straining his night vision to spot it exactly, but it's only right across the road - Clay's gas. He jumps again, pathing from midair to reappear right in front of one of the fuel pumps. He forces his eyes shut, grabs the nozzle and douses himself in gasoline, surely racking up a considerable bill he'll have to pay off later.
He doesn't light himself up, yet. He really doesn't want to do that; burns take the longest to heal. There's a reason you burned demons to kill them. Hopefully everything would just fuck off from being doused in gas in the first place.
The flapping of wings is /right behind/ him, the sky darkening further with the amount of bats that follow Colton to the gas station, and the cats seem eerily in tune with his every motion, skipping from shadow to shadow during his sojourn across the street. Some of the beetles got knocked off by the swipe of his hands - some remain, one or two that had managed to embed their mandibles right into the flesh of his leg. There's a subtle heat spreading through it, distracting and itchy, that he really doesn't have the time to pay attention to while he's dousing himself in gasoline. What a power move, honestly.
All of them pause at the threat, the stench of gasoline sharp and dizzying in the air, the flapping of wings all around him.
A long pause, as though there's some sort of unheard communication going on around him. Nothing moves.
And then, simultaneously, they slink back into the shadows as one, beetles spreading their wings and flying off the same as the bats taking to the trees once more. The cats are nowhere to be seen.
Colton needs a shower and a half.
("The Golden Shadow's Betrayal")
It's a good thing Colton put out those Snickers bars to lure Sophie away from his lemon and lime candies which are almost guaranteed to hit her like a shot of horse tranquiliser. She knows this, surely, and yet the temptation lingers. Worry not - her phone goes off in her other hand as she idles about the kitchen, munching chocolate. It's her cousin Grant; one of the those involved in the non-banking branch of the family business. It's not as if they've never spoken, either, but he's not the type to call just for a social chat, and definitely not at this hour. Something must be up.
Or... She could ignore it. Those gummies look so good. Those lemon flavoured ones and their topaz glow... the way the kitchen light filters through that gummy matrix, casting a golden shadow. It would be a betrayal of Colton's trust. And yet... he did put them in /her/ fridge. And there are so many.
The Snickers do be hitting just right. But it /is/ just one of those days where you just kind of want to drift away from the world when the hail's hitting her windows - reinforced glass, by the way - and the roof of her penthouse apartment, and, well, c'mon, it's a Friday night. Saturday morning, if we're being pedantic. Sophie considers the gummies for very long moments, even as her phone starts to buzz - ugh - and, despite knowing better, reaches out to pluck One Whole Gummy out of the fridge. She's not going to eat it all, of course. That would be silly.
Sophie answers the phone with a, "Yeah?", tucking it between her ear and shoulder while she pinches the gummy bear between thumb and forefinger, going over second thoughts and then third thoughts and then landing right back on first thought. Chomp, Mr Teddy loses a leg, before it goes back into the fridge. A yummy, lemon-flavored leg. "What's up, Grant?"
Well, to be clear, those are two-ounce jumbo gummies, so just that plump little bear foot is about the size of one normal little gummy bear. But Sophie isn't a coward, right?
"Sophie," Grant murmurs. He's got a stronger New England accent than most of her cousins, almost gratingly-so. "You're involved with the Venetian Accords these days, right? Tried reaching Aristotle first, but that lazy bum isn't picking up. Never can rely on him. So; we got one of those shithead mercenary types at one of our safehouses. Guy really thought he was the first person to come up with pathing through a vault door." There's a sound of skin on skin and a heavy thud in the background. It's not the fun kind; the merc's probably getting used as a punching bag. "Anyway, we don't wanna start no shit with the Accords, and we can't crack his Sanctuary while he's still getting juiced. So my thinking is - we want you to come by, flip him from these Shadow motherfuckers into your own little groupy-group, right? Then you kick his ass out and leave him to us. Maybe we cut out his tongue and leave it as a snack for them wolves you running with." There's only a sliver of judgement in his tone, there. That's pretty restrained, for a Wilson. Hopefully whoever this captive is can't hear the plan, though.
Sophie is definitely not a coward. How bad can one gummy bear be?
... she's probably going to find out.
She settles with her Snickers at the kitchen island, listening with a furrowed brow while she noms her chocolate, a bored look on her face as she stares out the window. Hopefully the hail isn't going to hit her plants out there on the balcony hard. That would be a real shame, even if she'd moved most of them to beneath the shade. Never know with wind and all that - she'll probably have to go out there once the sun is up to take a look, and hope the weather's eased up by then.
By the time Sophie's finished with her internal rambling, Grant's finished with his external rambling, and she pretends to give it some thought. "Yeah, no thanks," comes the easy answer. "Not only did he probably hear all of that-" You fucking dumbass, she doesn't say out loud, but the pause in between her words makes it loud and clear, "-but that's too much effort for a random guy. Just beat him up and put one of the ritualists in charge of making him really want a vacation somewhere sunny or something and slash his throat in Australia or wherever he goes." That doesn't go against Sanctuary, right? That's probably just as much effot, honestly, but Sophie doesn't have to do it. "And that way you can take a vacation too, pass it off as work. That sounds like a good time, doesn't it, Grant?"
Now that Sophie thinks about it, that /does/ sound like a great time. She leans forward against the island, exhaling out a little sigh. All the heat of her apartment doesn't make up for the lack of sun at all. Maybe Sophie should look into a nice little vacation on the beach, too...
"He's unconscious," Grant scoffs, audibly insulted that some little girl thinks she can tell him how to do his job. "I do this for a living, Sophie, Christ. You think the rest of your family's stupid or something? Just 'cause you're Grandmother's favourite don't actually make you all that special. Which one of us actually managed to activate, again?" Classic Grant. Classic Wilson, really. Get defensive and get mean. "Whatever. Fuck yourself, then. We'll deal with it ourselves, since you too busy sucking Moore dick to protect your actual family's assets. Fucking nerve of you." The call ends abruptly, some instinct in the elder, scummier cousin advising him to cut off the rest of his tirade. No doubt this would crop up into drama with the other Wilsons. Maybe Sophie's father would make a show of standing up to protect his little girl, but all he had was bluster.
Sitting down on the couch is beginning to seem like a very compelling idea, though, as the mammoth amount of THC in the Moore's edibles begins to pass from the Wilson's liver to her brain. Time for a very nice lie-down, indeed...