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Viewing Single Post From: Aaaaaand he's gone.
MK Kilmarnock
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Hate, hate, HATE!!!
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Jerry stared at the stairs just a little bit longer than he was comfortable admitting. Something about the way they went up and out of sight just bothered him... a totally irrational case of the jibblies. "These jibblies... I do not like them..." Jerry mumbled to himself in a thick, fake Russian accent. He could honestly go for a game of Poker Night at the Inventory right about now. Not that second one, though. Second one just wasn't worth it without Strong Bad. That's guy's personality was total gold.

Turning his attention away from the stairs, Jerry took in his surroundings. The cabin seemed... well, 'lived-in' was the first thing that came to mind, but it was clear nobody had lived here in a while. That being said, he wouldn't necessarily have any problems making a place like this his pad. The tiger rug, in particular, added this pretty neat touch. Now, if only he had a rifle; he could feel like he was on safari, hunting the most dangerous game.

Jerry was pretty sure that's what that one episode of Gilligan's Island was called.

He couldn't help but notice the distinct lack of a deer head on the wall. The rest of this place reeked of 'hunting lodge' decor to the point where he wouldn't be surprised if he found some camo-shit just laying around (obviously the high point of any fashion). Yet, not a single trophy lined the walls. A shame, really, because that would have just added the Evil Dead touch that the place oh-so-desperately needed.

Speaking of the Evil Dead, Jerry had this niggling feeling in his spine that something was looking at him. Wasn't the rug, that didn't have eyes. Wasn't the deer trophy on the wall, there wasn't a deer trophy on the fucking wall (seriously, was this person the worst hunter ever? Just have a thing against tigers?). Maybe it was those stairs... he hadn't checked upstairs, yet. There was a very real possibility that somebody was lurking at the bottom of the stairs. Watching... waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Jerry swallowed, his head swiveling like Mr. Goddamn Owl's before taking a lick out of a tootsie pop, and his eyes set on that staircase like glue. His hand fumbled through his pocket, trying to get a good grip in the switchblade. Y'know, just in case.
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Aaaaaand he's gone. · The Hunting Cabin