“Yeah, there’s a stop-gap in the glargleflargle. Gotta rumsticate the trackladackle and stromglobulate the unicrat.”
Simon Gyrees glared at the worfler. He only understand about three out of the ten words the guy said, but he was still pretty sure he was being taken for a ride.
Junia Bea twirled around the room.
The worfler adjusted the bill of his hat (his “volpnek”) and spat onto his shoe. A guild thing, Simon Gyrees supposed. The worfler said, “Contrariwise, yoinking the sproykoidal is gonna leave in a whole mess of yuptchez!”
Junia Bea cackled.
“Sir! I’ll thank you to leave that kind of language on the doorstep outside.”
The worfler mumbled something like sorry but didn’t appear very much to be. He twirled his, Simon thought he’d called it, igglestax and cleared his throat. “The whole thing’s probably gonna starch you three hundred twenty stackers.”
Simon Gyrees goggled. “Come, Junia Bea. We shall have to fromulgate our crapsinac somewhere else! Good day to you, sir!”
Simon Gyrees and Junia Bea stepped into a teapot and vanished.
The worfler went back to eating his trepuscular and ham sandwich.