[ After a desperate attempt to sooth his maddening alcoholism with Egon's trusty bottle of isopropanol, he feels a bit queasy.
It's not like he doesn't know he just guzzled a potentially lethal dose medicinal booze. Heavens no! He just gathers have 40 plus years of ingesting spoiled milk, rancid oatmeal, maggot-infested prime rib, crushed glass,
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With a stick.
Randall prods at him several times. When receiving no response he finally shrugs to himself. Why not...
He's hungry. No one else has claimed him. This should be delicious.
He not-so-gingerly grabs Murdoc's melon and slams it down on a pile of brick in attempt to crack it like an egg. Whatever brains were in there... if they were in there... were dinner.]
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