Apps I Wish I Hadn't Written [Parody]

[Wednesdays Child]

Schemer - Ole 'Amish Braineyes - Mole - Male - 52

"Oi doesn't know 'ow thee can be eatin' such things."

Anne Miggins looked down at the quarter-slice of mushroom and tomato quiche on her plate. She cut a piece off and put it in her mouth, and his glare intensified. It was like several piles of unwashed laundry had united under one greatcoat and one large hat to form a roughly mole-shaped creature.

"It's just a quiche, Hamish. They're good. Would you like to try a bite?"

The hat shied away. "Oi loikes moi pies made proper, mizz Miggins. Meat, taters, veggibles'n'gravies, sealed'n'topped with a noice thick pastry. No 'erbs, no spoices."

"Well, quiches are based around egg and milk rather than meat and gravy." Anne replied.

They sat in silence as Anne finished her meal.

"Excuse me? Are you Miggins and Braineyes?"

"Hurr aye, that we be." The pile of coats shifted and a paw stuck out of it. "Pleased t'make thy ackwayntance."

"...quite." The stoatess shook it carefully, then turned to the waistcoated squirrelmaid on the other side of the table and shook hers with rather more sincerity. "Miss Braineyes, please, I do need your help. You see, my son-"

"Thy dibbun's gorn missin'. Bin gorn two days, Oi reckons. Thee lives in th'Magna districk, an' thy dibbun doan't get out much, so thee reckons it be fowl play. An' Oi agrees."

The pile of coats somehow took on a rather smug expression at the pure horror plastered across the stoatess' face.

She looked back at Anne, who shrugged. "He's Braineyes. I'm Miggins. Afraid you didn't really give me much chance to correct you."

"Et's awroight, mizz Miggins. Oi'm sure th'good lady di'n't mean nuffin boi et."

"But... how could you possibly know those things?"

Anne slid sideways, making space for the stoatess to sit as Hamish explained and/or chuntered.

"Thee be carryin' a clutch dec'rated with Southsward lace. That'un's only bin 'ere in th' Big Pie f'r a month, month'n'arf at moast. Hoigh fashion. Thee's got whoite dust on thy skurt. Only hoigh-falutin' neighb'rhood what thee c'n get to'n'from without crossin' a sewer road be Magna. Thy glovers be frayed. Bein' foine Madd'r Barrow silk, same as what's used f'r ballet shoes, they be showin' a tad less'n two days wear. That be 'ow long thee's bin out arksin', lookin' f'r thy dibbun. 'Ow'd'I know 'e dun't gerrout much? 'E'd've 'ad 'aunts, an' thee'd've checked'em an' bin straight 'ere after. But thee've waited. Means thee doan't knoaw whurr 'e'd spend 'is toime if'n 'e were just Owt."

The stoatess stared. "Remarkable!"

"Oi knoaws. Mizz Miggins, would thou be so koind as to soart th'rates?"

The pile of coats and hat slumped to one side, sloughed off the bench, and lumbered outside.

Thurr b'ain't no city loike the Big Pie, where the gristle an' the meat an' the gravies all mush t'gether whoile the upper crust loards it over us'n's. But et b'ain't a bad loife. Some days thou gets a case, some days it moight even pay well. An' serpintly, et b'ain't so bad when thee's got a luvly assistant, even if she do be one of those types what doesn't believe in a good pie. Quichers! Next thou knows, et'll be snandmidges! Ow's oi meant t'ave a deeper'n'ever snandmidge? Fall apart, that 'ee will. Burr, listen to Ole 'Amish Braineyes, torkin' t'a sparra. Gawn, get thee 'ence.

The heap undulated at the nearby sparrow, which had been pecking at stray bugs all the while. Disturbed, it flew away, and Old Hamish Braineyes stood and watched the city and the people for a while.

[Wednesdays Child]

Hunter - Eugenie Greyhaven - Otter - Female - 27

"I know you're here." She bared a fang, held aloft her storm lantern, stalked slow and deliberate forward into the musty dark. The warehouse yawned away from her in all directions but she stayed her course, forging through the ancient space, kicking up swirls and eddies of dust in her wake.

Eugenie Greyhaven had made a career out of the hunt. Her prey, small, hard to find, sought after, priceless and beautiful to the right buyer. And it was always moments like these, blood roaring in her ears as she felt her quarry nearby, the faintest rush and rustle in the deep dark, with no idea of what was about to befall it.

Her tail kicked up great clouds of dust as she walked, past shelves in various states of decay, some with labels and some without, some with graffiti carvings and some long since rotted away. The rot grew more ubiquitous and the carvings fewer and further between, the further she delved into the great cavernous place.

"It figures I should find you here," she murmured. "Last of your kind, here where seven-score beasts and more used to work day in, day out, now nothing but a refuge for dust and relics like you."

She fancied she could feel an irritated glare from the shadows. It was of course nothing but fancy; her quarry would be lurking hundreds of feet away in one of the deepest store-rooms in the whole place, and would have no idea whatsoever that she was coming for it.

No matter. Whatever it took to keep the hunt at least a little bit interesting.

She passed old boxes and crates, piles of fabric and discarded paper covered in scribbles from long ago. Once or twice she stopped, her curiosity having gotten the better of her:

'Dearest Marian,' a letter said. 'It is with deepest regret that I must inform you-' No, not that one.

'Hey Tagg. Martin preserve me, I kissed Parian. Harvest moon. Beautiful night. Absurdly romantic - Brother Tamen was practicing the violin in the distance and he's really good so the mood was just perfect and oh heavens what have I done just tell me it'll be alright.'

Yes, that was a good one. Very cute. She pocketed it for later delivery. Might as well stoke up her reputation if she got the chance.

Ah, here they were. The old store rooms. Four of the most boring spaces in all of Mossflower, and she was going to find her elusive quarry in one of them. Seasons of research, rumour-collecting, gossip-sifting, had all led to this moment.

She burst into Store Room A, and immediately sneezed as twenty seasons worth of dust roiled up into the air.

Hours later, ankle-deep in Store Room D and covered with dust and sneezing every ten seconds, Eugenie Greyhaven finally came upon her quarry. She held up the tiny thing and held her breath, forcing herself not to sneeze or cough as she regarded it closely.

"Yes... yes, it *is* you. Wonderful. Perfect." She averted her gaze, coughed hard for several seconds, looked back up with both eyes streaming copiously. "Batch two-hundred and thirty of two hundred and thirty, the very last print. Mint condition Otter Taupes. Never sold, never used..." she took a short break from her monologue to cough even harder. "Oh, Hellgates. Let's just go. I'll gloat about how much I'm going to sell you for later."

She gingerly placed the sheet of stamps in between two sheets of wood in her messenger bag, tied a handkerchief across her muzzle, and went.

[Vizon]

Brilliant.