Eh.. Strange. Sonya, ya shoulda been sent our complimentary washroom niceties basket, seems the message don't feel like sendin' through when it has to.

Oh an' uh, Shoebox? Bring ya own duct-tape, Susan used most of th'roll I had for the next new meat to fix up her heels. Get on over to Ames. Ignore the suspiciously Kusarian lookin' doorman, he ain't Kusarian. Just as ugly, though.

Pygmy strides into his disheveled office, takes a seat on the stacked liquor cases, and opens up the newest application. He glances at the name, scratches his chin, then shakes his head. He crumples up the paper and chucks it into the corner already occupied by dozens of empty whiskey bottles.

Hm. D'oyley? Pretty damn strange last name, sonny. I'll give ya benefit of the doubt, better hope ya got ya birth certificate or fancy things like that layin' around. **He belches rather loudly into the comm unit** Get yaself over to Ames, 'n bring sumthin' that says I don't have t'kill ya fer bein' foreign. Don't bother comin' if ya can't do that. Ya'll just stink up my garbage.

Pygmy slips into his bright red leather heels, steps elegantly into his office and.. Wait, wrong outfit.

Pygmy belches loudly, followed by a rather violent projectile vomiting. He crashes down into his desk chair which consists of a few stacked, empty liquor cases. Glancing over the various papers scattered across his desk in a drunken haze, he randomly selects one of them and signs it so poorly it's almost not legible. But it is. Congratulations, you lucky person you.