“Fiddlesticks!” I complained to Screw, who was fussing with a pressure gauge that repeatedly failed on his airship (which had also never made it off the ground). I don’t know why you need a pressure gauge or how one goes bad, but it brought out the bitchiness in our precious gearhead.
“Can you stop with the clichéd movie lines for one goddamned day, Petti? It may be your defense mechanism against insanity, but it wore thin a year ago.” He closed his midnight eyes, and I suppressed even an internal sigh at his current state of undress as he sat on the dirt floor, large glass and bronze gauge in lap, screwdriver in hand. In his “shop,” in the summer, he’d typically strip off his immaculate attire and don the baggy shorts and Doc Martens he’d shredded into this dimension in–shirtless, smooth, sinewy muscles and all, leather- and gear-decorated braids brushing his shoulders.