Oh dear Dr. You’ve made a mess. Tsk tsk. You could have at least finangled the device out a bit more neatly. There’s Flint goo all over your gloves now!
The look of sheer pain on his face though is worth it.
So if the Walrus troops are being assembled though does that mean that we’ll finally see their accountant in the flesh again? As well as Billy the Devil and erstwhile Coffee boy?
I should be horrified about Rip’s current state, but I personally find the Dr.’s “Ripped” pun even more painful to look at. I think it even elicited a groan.
And to think – we all wanted this.
We crowded and cried for his blood, planned and collaborated for his brutal, ohsomanypieces, murder. And here it is, in the prelude phase, with Eicholtz as conductor. How many late-night flame-wars did we conduct, how many obscure and bloody-minded jokes and jibs did we trade, barking for a piece of Mr. Flintlock, guilty of harassing our favorites most cruelly.
We are not disappointed.
But what is this quelling sensation in the pit of me? Is this… sympathy?
Help me fellows, for I grow weak with human sensations of… pity.
0 thoughts on “Kill Your Heroes 17: Time For A Check Up”
Rosie
Oh dear Dr. You’ve made a mess. Tsk tsk. You could have at least finangled the device out a bit more neatly. There’s Flint goo all over your gloves now!
The look of sheer pain on his face though is worth it.
So if the Walrus troops are being assembled though does that mean that we’ll finally see their accountant in the flesh again? As well as Billy the Devil and erstwhile Coffee boy?
Vas
I should be horrified about Rip’s current state, but I personally find the Dr.’s “Ripped” pun even more painful to look at. I think it even elicited a groan.
Grymm
Puns are a sign of truly evil and unbalanced minds.
Marchosias
And to think – we all wanted this.
We crowded and cried for his blood, planned and collaborated for his brutal, ohsomanypieces, murder. And here it is, in the prelude phase, with Eicholtz as conductor. How many late-night flame-wars did we conduct, how many obscure and bloody-minded jokes and jibs did we trade, barking for a piece of Mr. Flintlock, guilty of harassing our favorites most cruelly.
We are not disappointed.
But what is this quelling sensation in the pit of me? Is this… sympathy?
Help me fellows, for I grow weak with human sensations of… pity.
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