Pushing aside your concerns in favor of far more important topics, you allow your mind to wander back to the rabbit-eared girl. “Hey, Marisa. About that rabbit-eared girl in the suit… was she soft, do you think?” You venture.
Marisa shrugs “I dunno about soft, but she was pretty squishy when I last fought her.” You nod thoughtfully—as attributes go, squishy isn’t bad. Not as good as soft, though. “Are you gonna come, or do I have to leave you behind?” Marisa asks, prompting you to mount the broom behind her.
After a few moments in the air, you realize that you’re becoming more and more accustomed to Marisa’s reckless flying. You feel rather ambivalent about this, however—if you get used to this kind of risk-taking behavior, you might very well end up seeking out adrenaline rushes instead of softness. And that would be, quite simply, unacceptable.
Shortly thereafter, you touch down on Marisa’s front lawn once again, rubbing your aching legs “Marisa, you’re going to get me killed with your flying.” You whine at your aggravatingly unaffected companion.
“Hey, Bob? Quit complaining. If it hadn’t been for my flying, you wouldn’t have that nice new mop of hair.” She responds, patting Shanghai “Besides, the doll didn’t seem to mind, did she?”
“Well, I suppose not…” You mutter, knowing that arguing about a doll’s feelings would probably just end with you getting blasted. Tripping over one of the many articles scattered through her hallways, though, you feel your ire rise and come out in one great eruption of energy.
”GODDAMN, MARISA, YOU NEED TO CLEAN YOUR STUPID HALLWAYS.” You roar, nearly deafening yourself and clearly startling Marisa. “B-Bob?” She stutters, her eyes wide as saucers and her face pale as a ghost’s, “What the hell?”
[b]”YOUR HOUSE IS A BLOODY PIGSTY, MARISA. I AM NOT AMUSED BY YOUR PACK-RAT-LIKE ANTICS.”[b] You respond, your ears ringing with the shouting.
“Bob, what’s wrong with you?” She says, barely regaining her composure “Have you lost your mind?”
[b]”NO, BUT I’VE HAD IT UP TO HERE WITH YOU B—“[b] Suddenly, you find yourself cut off by a loud tearing sound. Marisa stares at you with a horrified expression, one hand going to her mouth and the other hand pointing at you “Y-your hair…”
“What?” You mutter, reaching up to your head… only to find bare skin where moments ago there was a poofy head of hair. “What?!”
A scuttling noise draws your attention to the floor, where your hair, having separated from you, stands proudly. The fuzzy, self-propelled mass ‘looks’ back at you and makes a strange burbling noise before shuffling with alarming speed between Marisa’s feet and into the depths of her lair.
“A-after it!” Marisa urges you, spinning around and quickly making her way through the crowded hall. Standing for a moment, you find yourself wondering what kind of sick, twisted god puts you into these situations.
[ ] Help Marisa.
[ ] Don’t help Marisa.
[ ] Save the poor hair-creature.
[ ] Custom.