::Dying ain't much of a living:: {FWTDS} Day 1

[charade]

[presto][/presto]

COVER

STANLEY SCHUSTER: THE RAWHIDE KID

ISSUE #10
Feb '81
Joel
SCHUSTER
Gail
SCHUSTER
Robert
ROSS
THIS ISSUE, WILD WESTERN TALES

DIRECT SALES


$2.99

It was hot. Not unbearably so with the light breeze that working its way across him, but with the chaos of the fight he’d just escaped, it was hot enough that his palms were sweaty; his knees were weak and his arms were heavy.

He thought he might vomit up last night’s spaghetti. He was nervous, but doing his best to stay calm and ready. He didn’t want to lose himself.

Not yet.

The bloodbath had been chaotic; a bloody press of twenty-four bodies in one building that wasn’t big enough for all of them. A loose rock got caught on his shoe and he staggered for a second, his arms hanging loosely at his side.

He was hunched over, the branding iron in his hand scraping the ground behind him. Shallow cuts screamed at him from his arm, his shoulder, his stomach and his back. There was dried blood all over his hands and soaking his shirt.

The career girl from two had shot him in the goddam neck and he had screamed when he pulled the shaft out, tossing it aside holding a hand to his neck. He’d done what he could to staunch the blood flow, ripping off his sleeves and tying the strips of cloth around where all the wounds were.

It wasn’t as good as bandages, but it would suffice as first aid for the moment.

The moment. He chuckled bitterly as he tried to keep his eyes on Finley’s backside ahead of him.

The moment he’d waited for. The bloodbath had felt like he’d been searching in the dark, his sweat soaking through the floor. Buried in his bones was an ache he couldn’t ignore. It was taking his breath, stealing his mind; it felt like all that was real was left behind.

He couldn’t fight it, it was coming for him, running at him. In that moment he didn’t care what came after. He wondered if a fever dream was getting closer and part of him just wanted to surrender as he felt the feeling taking over.

There was fire in his veins, and a pounding in his head breaking at the brick of every wall that was holding all that he knew. He just wanted to go.

If he had enough left in him, he’d put on the greatest show. Like he told the Gamemakers he would.

He’d spied several limbs scattered around the floor as he’d fled, though only the girl from district one lay dead in the Sherriff’s Office. As Stanley staggered after Finley, he considered that he’d been relatively lucky. For most of the bloodbath he’d gone largely unnoticed.

Many of the tributes had grabbed only a handful of items before scampering away, and once the number of bodies had lessened, he’d had enough of an opening to enter the jail cells and get into the thick of things.

Once in however, he quickly realized just how awful the smell of blood was. He’d barely done anything to anyone other than the girl from two. When he’d tried to smack the bow out of her hands, he was pretty sure he’d heard the crunch of bone.

Maybe if her wrist was fucked up she’d think twice before shooting him again. He’d been ready to smack her again, but then that sharp eye-browed brunette from three had brained the terrifying girl from one with a goddam horseshoe while her allies informed the boy from twelve that getting in their way would in fact cost him an arm and a leg.

That had been the last straw for most of the remaining tributes, and they’d fled, Savvy among them, dragging a screaming Exover with her.

He didn’t blame everyone for running; seeing the career that scored an eleven get taken out by a nerd from the tech district was pretty damn unnerving. In the end, it had been just him and Finley against the pair from three, the girl from five and the boy from six.

He’d tried to fight, honest, but they were outnumbered two to one and he was bleeding from all over his body. Finley had had blood streaming down the side of her head from where an ear should have been.

“Reckon we should leave this joint?” Finley had murmured as she backed away from the fight. Stanley had agreed and run after her, hoping she knew where she was going.

Stanley ran his tongue over cracked and bloody lips and straightened up a little. When they’d been in the training center they’d agreed to meet at whatever the largest visible monument was in case they got separated. Didn’t get much bigger than the mountain.

As he had anticipated, Savvy and Ex hadn’t gotten very far, which was a relief. He strolled up to them, hefting his mail bag and offering the pair a half-hearted tip of the black cowboy hat he was wearing in salute.

“Glad to see you made it out in one— “

Stanley started coughing to cover up his horrifying realization that the other boy was missing a foot, and one of Savior’s arms ended at the elbow. And lord, there was just so much blood.

“Well, we all made it.” he finished hastily. For now, he thought darkly. Bloodless bloodbaths usually resulted in the game makers unleashing hell within a day or two. Not to mention that the more bloodthirsty tributes might be roaming about looking to clean up the wounded. While the four of them were beat to fuck, he hoped they didn’t rate very high on the radar.

Stanley sighed and glanced at the weapon he’d obtained. The branding iron was large and unwieldy, and he cursed himself for not grabbing something better. The capitol seal on the end of it seemed to mock him, as did the tag dangling from his ear.

Yeah, I get. The herds of sheep get tagged and branded in district eight after all. We’re the sheep, and the arena is full of wolves. Whoop de fuckin doo. The game-makers are going to cut themselves on all this edge.

With a groan, he leaned on a sheer rock wall near them and closed his eyes for a second. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he could really feel the abuse that he’d taken. And not a med-kit in sight. At least Finley had a pitchfork, it looked mightily more useful than what he had, or the hammer that Savvy had picked up. If Exover had something, he hadn’t seen it.

Stanley opened his eyes and hefted the branding iron, clearing his throat nervously. He thought he’d heard the words sick fucks echoing off of the rocks. Maybe someone else was nearby?

“If we can get a fire going, I’m pretty sure I can use this to cauterize those ah, stumps.” He looked at the seal again. “Well, if you don’t mind being marked by the Capitol, that is.”

He looked away, back towards the rock wall and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. Then paused; there was something glinting in a crevice that he hadn't seen the first time. He reached in to pull it out, finding it to be a small golden lipstick tube marked with a skull and crossbones.

Odd.

The implication of the symbol tugged at him; this was something that needed further investigation. It was probably poisoned. But would it hurt the wearer? Or the one that they kissed? He could find out later. For now, he had allies to attend to. Stanley dropped the tube into his bag and turned back to them.

Editor’s note:
The makers of Stanley Schuster are happy to announce that the series is being made into a light novel! Though the format is different, it’s still the same Stanley you know and love.

Ad Space:
Stanley uses F/A for -3
Acquires poison lipstick

[cameron]

He was leaves, still on a tree mid-winter, dead and rotted but clinging onto the familiar by the tiniest threads, slim sinews separating slower, and slower, and s l o w e r, until the inevitable snap that sent them spiraling to their deathbed as if there was ever another option. And there never was another option for the big, blind oaf from ten, even with his brute strength alone, even through his ability to starve and survive. Exover was the lowest ranked tribute for good reason, and he knew time would beckon him home within the first minute of the games, as did every other tribute there. He was the lamb led to slaughter without fear; he didn’t deny his fate like the dry ass leaves pretending their existence wasn’t already drained from their veins, like they weren’t fighting a pointless battle for a dead end war.

He let go and fell.

Gravity claimed him as its bitch and dropped him like a tree, his foot a few feet away, his body parallel with the earth. A hole in his neck burst like a sap spring, bubbling up around his head, matting the back of his hair. He laid there for what could’ve been days waiting to be chopped for lumber; he was, after all, the perfect firewood: long and thick, not too damp, useless for anything else. Hell, he could be smashed into pulp and turned into paper for all he cared. He just wanted it over. But the end didn’t come. He remained motionless, dead on the ground, a stream from his neck pooling around him, his foot disconnected from his fucking leg. If anything, his foot, which landed gently to the side of his loud, anguished collapse, was the leaves. Not him. It separated and fell and died, as was intended, but he couldn’t pull through on the last half of the bargain.

Maybe it was the blood loss, but how he ended up on the ground was lost to him. He racked his brain, but from the moment he stepped off the podium everything was a complete blur, even more than usual. He smelled Saturn, still tasted his power on his tongue, but that could’ve been left over from their morning. (Teeth brushing was skipped on account of impending doom.) He also smelled Francisco Bloom, whose memory stole red from his throat and planted its ruby seeds across his cheeks. Last, he smelled Nico. Gravity’s other bitch. Terror warped his mouth as he registered the implications of tulip boy’s protector needing protecting, but lips met when his body was yanked up, out of dying reverie and onto the shoulders of another.

Exover didn’t protest. He just screamed. The girl from nine was unflinching, kept barreling ahead like it was nothing out of the ordinary to haul an unfamiliar human around unfamiliar terrain with a bunch of unfamiliar people trying to murder them. She’d sat with him while waiting for their private training sessions, and she’d let him say nothing while he fumed, and still she let him expel his anger right behind her head. If she needed him for firewood, he’d oblige. As close to happily as he could muster.

For a while, he pressed something firm into his neck, doing his best not to paint his savior’s backside in blood, but at some point he’d let whatever it was go. He didn’t want to even think about her stains from his open ankle. But she kept on, and he couldn’t even commit fully to screaming, his lungs giving out in spats of exasperation, swinging in and out of her eardrums like a brass bell. He was angry - angry at himself for not stepping off the podium early, angry at the other tributes for not outright killing him, angry that he had to suffer on past that day. He was angry and he wanted it known, because for the first time in his life it could be known, could be heard, could be seen. He wasn’t alone in the forest when his tree fell, but surrounded by millions who heard the sounds of his downfall, who witnessed his broken silence.

If his mother was watching at home, she would know exactly why he screamed, would hear the chains breaking apart, would see his shackles undone and the boy allowed to feel anything and nothing all at once. He chose to feel everything. Then he felt something hard pelt his head, and he tumbled right off the girl’s back and on top of whatever knocked him. Before he climbed off the beeping box that fell from the sky, an angry leaf to rival his angry tree, the boy that caught him upside down in a trap a few days before arrived. Exover heard fabric move, but couldn’t be sure what piece of clothing he adjusted, and then the boy sent himself into a coughing fit. Too much happened at once, and he regretted choosing everything. He couldn’t keep up.

“Well, we all made it!” For now, he thought darkly. The boy seemed relieved to see the two of them, but he was sure the relief was reserved for the force still standing over him. No one in their right mind would be excited to see someone with a hard time getting around in general and a newly severed appendage. Ex wasn’t even sure how it was considered 'making it', or why it was celebrated either way. The point was for everyone to not make it. He may have been blind, but he thought he saw things much clearer than some. This kid was one of the some.

When trap boy offered to sear his leg, he set back and held his bloody bum end out. One hand reached up and grasped the girl’s only, and he gently squeezed its sticky flesh. His lips sealed, rolling a section between his teeth, trying to push out an I’m sorry or a thank you as easy as he pushed out his stump for cauterizing, but what came was a low groan and a brief “mmm” accompanied by a slightly harder squeeze. It was a step. But, he reminded himself, he had just made more noise than he’d ever made in his entire life, so he was due at least a year of rest.

And he remembered the box, the one that hit his head, still partially under his butt. Pulling it out, he handed it up to the girl, who he decided he trusted with his life despite knowing next to nothing about. A sponsorship package, of course, but it couldn’t be for him. No one would waste money on him, but he would spend his life savings - (if he had any savings) - on her and her comfortable survival. “For you.” He turned his head to the boy, still waiting to be branded. “And for you,” he said while shaking where his foot should be. Laying back, he rested his head on what felt like a bone but he knew was a weird shaped rock. He inhaled, sharp, and took in the scents swimming through the breeze. He was anything but the leaves, for he was still alive, still clinging to a dead end war, and for once he felt like fighting.



ooc: exover use f/a on savior powermaker for -3 damage

[aya]

Would that someone would smite her deaf to spare Savior from the unholy shrieking funneled directly into her left ear. Covered in blood — hers, Exover's, whoever the hell else's — like she's a tick burrowing into the flesh of some beast instead of just digging graves. Her stump sears, bright pops of light covering her vision every time she makes the mistake of moving her shoulder. The wriggling weight on her back doesn't make keeping still easy, to say nothing of the screeching. Eventually he quiets, intermittent screams mixed with half-coherent curses expelled from his lungs like a spasm.

When she can't move another step, she drops the boy and to her knees. Everything spills from her quickly at first, like sand spilling from a burlap sack that's been gashed open. Then it settles, a low groan transmuting into a throaty chuckle as the shock takes hold. Her heart shakes into her ribs with every thrum of possessed laughter and Savvy Powermaker has no idea why she isn't dead yet unless she really is unkillable after all. Down an arm — immortal is not invulnerable — and bleeding profusely, but very much alive. The same can't be said for the girl that dealt her the wound: Savvy heard that crunch, saw that spill of blood and brains. And the boy that speared her calf had damn well been cloven in two. Random chance or divine retribution? It makes no difference when they're one and the same.

It is no shock that Stanley and Finley catch up as quickly as the do. One tribute dragging another, both bleeding profusely, does not make for a speedy getaway. "Glad to see you made it out in one— " Stanley starts. A wild grin curls its way up Savvy's cheeks as she pulls her second piece out of her bag and waves it at the two newcomers. "Well, we all made it." For some definition of made it, anyway.

Stanley offers his branding iron for cautery — "if you don’t mind being marked by the Capitol, that is." Growing delirious — from lost blood, from shock — Savvy snorts. "Yeah," she says, eyeing the place where her arm ends twenty inches early, "a brand is over the line. I'd rather bleed out." She rolls her eyes. "Light'er up. Screw dignity. What's the point in here?"

Time blurs together in a smoky haze of sizzling blood and cooking flesh, of cleansing fire and jagged lightning pains. Savvy swears that her heart stops again, but who's to say? She's still sitting up, somehow, the next time she's fully aware of her surroundings.

"For you." Exover hands a box to her, silver parachute still dangling. Bracing the container against her body. A helmet, bright orange, three protruding eyeballs on the top. Gaudy and tacky... and maybe the difference between life and death. Enough to stop a horseshoe from making red-and-grey porridge of her brain. It's not for her. It's got Exover's name on it... and he might not know the difference, but Finley and Stanley? Between the two of them odds are someone is literate. She sighs, not ready to squabble over supplies. It's too early. She's too tired.

With a reluctant sight, Savvy shoves the helmet onto Exover's head. "It's got your name on it. I'll be taking your sickles though. You've got shitty aim."

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

Why would you make out of words
A cage for your own bird?
When it sings so sweet
The screaming, heaving, fuckery of the world

Only when she exits the Bloodbath does Finley realize that her own blood was spilled. She thinks maybe she doesn’t feel pain in the correct way. She notices the blood dripping down her neck, the warmth of it. This isn’t dried blood from some happenstance interaction with a tribute who got unlucky. This is her own misfortune.

”Well, shit,” she mumbles under her breath, reaching up to feel the absolute wrongness of it. ”Some fucker took my ear.”

Perhaps the nerves were damaged, back when she died. This is the only logical explanation she can think of; between drowning at the hand of her father and being saved by a woman who gave her the kiss of life, anything could have happened. Or maybe, even in her peaceful meandering through the chaos of the Bloodbath, the adrenaline knew better than to lay dormant. If that’s true, the pain is bound to hit at some point.

Now, they are paused below a great rock shaped like a giant thumb, and Exover and Savvy aren’t far behind. Finley’s heart clenches in her chest at the sight of their wounds, and when Stanley says “Glad to see you made it out in one— “ piece, she bites her tongue. She doesn’t like seeing others in pain, but it’s not like she know how to help. Finley ”I have no useful skills” O’Hara doesn’t know shit about cauterizing a wound, so she leaves Stanley to it. She doesn’t even say anything, which is a first. What does a person say when the people around you are injured in an all-consuming fight to the death? Hey, need a hand?

This isn’t exactly the time for lighthearded foolishness, so Finley retreats a few feet away along the rock’s edge and sits, resting her back against the warm surface. This whole place is warm, but it’s not the same kind of warm as District Four. The air and the dirt are both dry, and she thinks she’s never experienced anything like it. Her world is one painted with waves and rainstorms, and this place defies everything that feels comfortable.

Just as her heart sinks from homesickness, a vast parachute dips down from the sky and lands at her feet. Shocked isn’t the right word for how it makes her feel. This isn’t surprise. Finley O’Hara knows that other people -- Capitolites included -- probably find her antics and charisma entertaining, and are willing to sponsor her for it.

This feeling, it’s a rush of hope burning a fire in her chest. She smiles wide when the parachute plops in the dirt, and she lunges forward to tear open the package.

She pauses when she sees a note settled on top of the other items. The words delicate and Finley don’t usually belong together, but in this moment Finley delicately reaches for the piece of paper, unsure. Curious.

The note reads:

Finley, you survived one of the hardest parts of the games and you made it out in one piece. Good. Take care of your alliance. Here’s some stuff in order to get you by, keeping going. I believe in you. Fight. Like your life depends on it. Even when you aren’t sure what to do, just do it. Your gut is never wrong. I trust in that.

I’ll see you soon.

- Annie

There’s no trace of cameras, but Finley knows they’re probably watching. She lifts her head up and smiles wide, folding the paper gently and setting it safely in her bag.

”Thank you,” she says to nobody, to the whole world watching, to Annie. ”See you soon.”

Anatalia "I'll give you whatever help you need” Morrisen doesn’t disappoint. The package at her feet consists of the oddest assortment of items she’s ever seen, but she’s thankful for each one.

There’s a harmonica, which makes her smile even wider. Music is important for survival, after all, and maybe she can find a good use for it. There’s a jar of some kind of clear liquid, and upon further inspection she realizes that it’s very strong booze. She figures she’s supposed to use it as a disinfectant, so she pours some on her wounded ear and immediately regrets it.

”Ripred, fuck!” she complains, shaking the liquid out of her hair. Then takes a swig for the pain.

Below the booze, there’s a camera with ten blank sheets. She’s seen tributes from previous Games take photographs and carry them along, and the thought makes her frown. She doesn’t like thinking of these people as future memories, so she tucks the camera away for now. Maybe she’ll change her mind later.

Next is a neatly-bound leather journal with empty pages, and she laughs. ”Gonna write down all my stories, huh?” she asks nobody, tucking the notebook into her bag.

She pauses when she reaches the gun and the dynamite. Finley’s seen things like this before, in the Games and back in District Four in the hands of Peacekeepers. Upon closer inspection, she realizes they’re both fake. There’s no bullets, no explosives. Pure fucking trickery, that’s what this is.

”Oh, you know me so well,” she says with a grin, clutching the items to her chest. ”I’ll have fun with these.”

Next is a shiny badge that says Sheriff across the front, shaped like a star. It’s meant to be pinned to her lapel, but she’s still a little murky about what a Sheriff actually is. Is it some kind of Peacekeeper?

She pins the badge to her vest with a shrug.

When she reaches for the next item in a hurry, Finley gasps at the pain of something pricking her finger. ”Ow! she says with a hiss, pulling her hand back in a hurry. ”What in the actual fu--” And she’s about to be bitter as hell about the gift, until she realizes what it is.

A tiny, prickly plant in a cute pot.

”Oh,” she whispers, eyes going wide. ”Oh, hello.”

Somebody has helpfully labeled it cactus, so she figures that’s what its name is. She suddenly feels very responsible for the life of this bizarre plant, and she sets Cactus down next to her. ”Mr. Cactus Friend,” she says with a smile. ”I bet my sister Aisling would love you.”

So she tucks it close by and keeps going, sorting through the last of the items. There’s another weapon, one that looks even deadlier than the one she’s currently hauling around. A needle and thread, which she uses to (probably ineptly) sew her wounds. She fills the canteen, and finally purifies it with the iodine tablets resting at the bottom of the package.

When all is said and done, her heart feels less heavy than it did when they first reached the Thumb Rock. Finley dusts herself off and strolls up to her allies with Mr. Cactus Friend in hand.

She could say How are you feeling? or I’m glad we’re safe. But she doesn’t.

Finley nudges the badge pinned to her chest.

”Biiiiitch, I’m the Sheriff.”

No Plan - Hozier

[charade]

[presto][/presto]

COVER

STANLEY SCHUSTER: THE RAWHIDE KID

ISSUE #10
Feb '81
Joel
SCHUSTER
Gail
SCHUSTER
Robert
ROSS
THIS ISSUE, WILD WESTERN TALES

DIRECT SALES


$2.99

As Stanley resigned himself to keeping his allies alive, he had to admit he hadn’t really been expecting any sponsorship; he was a forgettable tribute from a forgettable district.

But it was nice to know at least someone had their eye on him. The first thing he pulled out of the care package was a whip, which he cracked experimentally. The motion was fluid and the noise was loud. He nodded, this would serve him well.

It wasn’t a bad haul overall; no meds or armor but the water stuff would help. The other stuff…

Well, someone definitely wanted him to build something. Maybe his trainer? Most of the items he chucked into his bag, before pausing and pulling out a loaf of bread. Now where the hell had that come from? Had it been in the bag when he picked it up?

Stanley made a mental note to not put anything bloody in the bag if he could avoid it.

Finley paraded up from her parachute packing a petite, prickly plant in a pot and proclaimed that she was the sheriff, before tripping on…something and twisting her ankle.

Something that seemed to bother her a lot more than the blood encrusted flap where her ear used to be. Well. Good to know that I’m the only sane one here. What the hell have I gotten myself into?
-
After freeing what used to be an arm from the ground underneath Ex, (He didn’t feel the need to inform his ally about what it was, only gently moving him off it) Stanley set about whacking the shit out of it with his branding iron like Hephaestus of old.

It took longer and was harder than he anticipated to break it into usable pieces, and by the end of it, he was sweating profusely. But he had duct tape, and a shovel; The trainer at the improvised weapons station had made the Mortuus girl’s various abominations required viewing so he knew he had enough to work with.

Any shards of bone that were above three inches he grabbed and sharpened with one of Ex’s knives. Once he was convinced they were pointy enough, he set about taping them around the perimeter of the shovel head in equal distances.

After a few experimental swings at the ground that pulled up sod without dislodging any of the spikes, he was satisfied with his creation. He gave his allies an overdone grin and waggled the weapon at them until his eyes alighted on Savior’s bag.

There was a hand poking out of it, which after a moment of internal screaming he remembered belonged to her. She’d wiggled it at him when they’d caught up with each other, proving the depths of her insanity.

While her depths were indeed something he wouldn’t mind plumbing, on the one hand she scared the shit out of him, and on the other, more severed hand, his attempts at playing a suave smooth-talker had thus far gone nowhere. Except with Saturn, and that had been unintentional.

Stanley closed his eyes. He’d told himself that he’d have to pretend to be something he wasn’t to get through this shit, but he hadn’t expected to need to come up with something so soon. Put on a show, he reminded himself. Make yourself memorable.


“Hey, Sav!” He said, jerking his head towards her bag as he gestured to his creation. “I could add a personal touch to this, if you’d like.”
…

The nut-job from nine didn’t care for the ramblings of mere mortals such as himself he noted, as he gingerly removed the body part from the bag. He shook hands with it, ignoring the dead fish feel and suppressing a shudder.

Might as well act insane, really keep the theme we have going.

Though he was seconds away from barfing at any given moment, he sawed the hand off of the arm with one of the knives, and put the rest of the arm back in Savior’s bag. He deftly skinned it; something he’d picked up at the trapping station and proceeded to wrap it to the center of the shovel head with what remained of his duct tape.

It smelled like raw meat and death, but he did his best to ignore it. The weapon in front of him was an abomination, but one that he had created. Did that make him the abomination?

No, he told himself. I’ll always been good at fixing things. This is…this is similar. Sort of.


“Someone sponsored me a whip,” he tried to say casually.“Since all you got was a hammer, you can have this. Here. I call it the fist of an angry god! Every cool weapon has a name in the old legends right?”

He handed the makeshift spiked blunt to Savior and announced that he was going to take a look around.
--
Now that he was paying attention to his surroundings, he could hear water running. Might as well get that out of the way. Who knew if there was water anywhere else in the arena? He headed in the direction of the sound and soon came to a small stream. Then his heart skipped a beat.

There were footprints by the bank.

Stanley whirled around, holding his branding iron out in front of him menacingly. There was no one that he could see but that didn’t mean someone wasn’t there. They taught camouflage in the training center after all.

A minute or two passed in silence, with sweat trickling down his face, but no one showed. He was still pretty certain that he’d heard a voice earlier, but for the moment at least, it appeared that the four of them were alone.

He cast another look around and then looked back at the marks. They were fairly small; dainty even. Maybe it was one of the younger female tributes? Or a mutt with feet. Who knew?

Stanley washed the blood off of his hands with a grimace before filling his canteen and dropping one of the tablets in, idly wondering how long it would take to work. With one last look around the stream for potentially hidden tributes, he headed back to where the others were.

“I haven’t heard any cannons since the career girl from one died,” he mused aloud. “Either everyone is licking their wounds, or plotting.” He took a seat next to Ex, groaning as he did so.


“Figure that means the game-makers will rain hell on us all in a day or two.”

Ad space:
Receives Shovel, duct tape, washboard, Iodine (3), empty canteen, whip and bread
Fills canteen, uses one tablet
Builds a spiked blunt using improv weapons (Approved}
Trades the Fist of an angry god to Savior