Felicity Gabdod left her keys on the drianboard next to the plump wads of armadillo foam and shrieked into the intercom.
“Poonfaff, you puss-ridden possum-humper! Get your Crisco-packed protoplasmic envelope down here this instant and get this ‘dillo foam off my drainboard! And don’t you dare hologram. I want your ass in person!”
The velocity of the pressure differential that formed her words at transduction blew all of the silicon in the hapless intercom. As it shuddered into discorporation, a feeble error message escaped its bandwidth and made its way to the cave of the Stoned Brainger.
“Ah ha!” exclaimed the Stoned Brainger. “Food for Thought! Here, Thought, here boy,” he whistled.
Soon, Thought, in a clatter of toenails, rounded the corner and slid to a stop on the smooth limestone floor. He wagged his mighty tail mighty hard and waited patiently for his master to offer him the tidbit. After he’d dogged it down and decoded the message, he and the Stoned Brainger began to lay plans for the revenge they would take on Ms. Gabdod.