Stark Industries | Saturday

[dollpocalypse]

Today Topher was working on fixing an ice cream machine that some little kid had brought in to be repaired. Well, he started to work on it, but before long it became apparent that the machine wasn't broken at all. There just wasn't anything in it. Hence, no ice cream.

After marking the machine with a post-it explaining the problem and setting it aside to be returned to the kid when he picked it up, Topher took his lunch break early and he bought some ice cream.

The Arms Hotel, Saturday

[gunslingerpose]

"Everything is turkey, isn't it?" Gunther was withholding comment as Nikolai took in the specials board speculatively. "We've got a hotel full of people visiting for the weekend, and everything on the menu is made from leftovers. How many turkeys did you make on Thursday?"

Still no comment.

Nikolai sighed and shook his head, getting back to looking up motorbikes on the internet.

Welcome to the Arms Hotel!
Today's Specials:
Turkey Tetrazzini
Warm Greek Pita Sandwiches With Turkey and Cucumber-Yogurt Sauce
Turkey Posole
Roast Turkey Ice Cream

"No, Gunther. I'm not trying a free ice cream sample."

The Arms Hotel is open!

[OOC: And flying without OCD!]

Curiosities, Oddities, and Antiques - Saturday

[voiceoverdue]

Cecil had ended up sucking it up and going home for Thanksgiving. The Dead Citizens' Impersonation Contest had been outstanding as always, Old Woman Josie had gifted him some of her lovely cornbread (the angels hadn't even run off with the salt in a while), and Carlos had at least consented to a bit of necking on the sofa, so it hadn't been too bad, really.

Carlos had also gone off on into scientific raptures about how the portals could manage to sync up with Night Vale's time-stream or something. Honestly, as long as it did, Cecil didn't much care, but it was pretty neat to watch him talk about it.

On the other hand, it meant that now he felt even colder on the island. And damper. He had both heaters going at the shop, and he still wasn't taking off his coat and scarf any time soon. Foucault had burrowed into the middle of a comforter and refused to come out, so he was currently a fabric-covered lump in the corner.

As expected, the clocks from last week hadn't gone anywhere. Cecil put out a sign:

Free shrunken head with every cuckoo clock!

Maybe that would help them sell?