Search Results for 'fingers'

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  • #3472

    Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity of white knuckle hair raising maniac mandarin maneuvers with no respite, not for even a second, the Lazuli duck landed on the beach at the innermost coastline of the Bay and shapeshifted back into his usual human form. As soon as Lisa could straighten out her fingers, seized into a gripping feathers position, she punched Lazuli right in the middle of his joined up long black eyebrow. Then she howled in pain as her tense knuckles met the hard bone of his forehead.
    “You fucking asshole! You jackass show off useless twat!”
    Lazuli looked mildly surprised and asked, “That wasn’t fun?”
    “Flun!! Flinking flool, flu flipped Flanella floff, and flow flea flost fleur!” Lisa was distraught, and with the additional feelings of outrage (feelings are meant to be fleeting, but this one was sticking around) at Lazuli’s reaction, was having difficulty forming words. “I flope flu flan flive with florself, flu fuckflit!!”
    In exasperation Lisa howled, beating her fists upon Lazuli’s chest, then she collapsed to her knees, weeping.
    The intensity of emotion she was projecting attracted Mirabelle and Igor, who made a spontaneous maneuver mid teleport which landed them on the sand beside Lisa.
    Mirabelle retched violently upon landing, while Igor stumbled in haste to evacuate his bowels behind a mangrove tree, both of them giddy and sickened by the abrupt change in direction and the gut wrenching intensity of the situation.
    The unexpected arrivals arrested Lisa’s sobbing mid flow. “Fliraflelle!” she exclaimed, and then added in increasing agitation, “ Oh, for flucks flake! Fly fan’t I fleak flopperly!”
    “Why don’t you just shut the fuck up for five minutes until you’ve calmed down, LisaSanso suggested calmly.
    Lisa took a deep breath and let it out with a full body shudder. “Oh Flanso…”

    “Shhhhh,” he replied gently, “Shhhhh.”

    #3308
    AvatarJib
    Participant

      “Madame, a message from your mother. She’s waiting for you in her room.”

      Linda Pol, ensconced in a lumpy chair at the hotel bar, got confused at the mention of her mother. She had forgotten for a moment that it was the code for her meeting with Amber Graystone. The boy was wearing the hotel livery, the fur was a perfect fit on that young body. He must have been eighteen, at least, it was illegal in most states to employ underage personnel. He was presenting her a folded paper on a silver plate. That was so cliché, the Management should keep up to date with the latest unusual methods.

      She took the paper delicately. Thick, three hundred grams at least. Grainy yet satin-smooth. She thought the Management had money issues. She opened it and saw a single number inside. 88857.

      “There must be a mistake, mon ami. Certainly your hotel is big, but it doesn’t have so many stories.”
      The boy smirked.
      “Please follow me, I’ll show you the way. Oh, and keep the card with you.”

      Linda Pol had become cautious with age, but she had to admit the thrill of adventure and mystery was exciting. Especially presented on a silver plate by such a gorgeous minion. Something she hadn’t felt often lately.

      She smiled, stretched her left arm and fluttered her fingers. Those chairs were so deep that you could’t get up without looking like getting out of the armpit of a gorilla. The boy helped her out, a surprised look on his face when she appeared to spring on her feet like a young damsel. Those morning fitness sessions were paying off after all.

      “Show me everything”, she said with her best doe eyes.
      Come on, Pol. He could be your son, she thought. The youngest, added her mother’s disincarnate voice.

      #3153
      EricEric
      Keymaster

        Reginald gaped in amazement at the brainwave that had struck Sadie. Poor thing, he thought, she seemed to have these fits sometimes, where she would hang on a word, frozen in time for minutes, and then resuming as if nothing had happened.
        He snapped his fingers in front of Sadie, but she remained motionless. Pity, he thought, there would be none of the delicious crocodile eggs poached from the Menagerie left when she would come back to her senses…

        #3121
        EricEric
        Keymaster

          Queen Marie, Our Good Queen, as the little gents liked to call her, had not been as excited at the prospect of the salon since a long time.
          She ringed the bell for the servant girl to bring more wood, as drafts of chilly air were coming from outside. Although quite modern and shiny, the palace was not as equipped for the cold season as the old castles from her mother land. Worse, with age and soft weather, she’d grown accustomed to being warm, and couldn’t bear the cold any longer.

          The crackling sound of the pine wood inside the small chimney was comforting and brought her back to her thoughts. A salon, full of delightful witty people, with laughters and costumes, entertainment and champagne wine. She’d heard a special batch of barrels from la Maison Ruinart would be brought especially for the Royalties. Of course, she knew most of those were small favors for the King’s mistress, Reinette, but she didn’t care. Oddly enough, she didn’t mind the woman, who had been always very delicate and considerate towards her, almost affectionate. To be honest, she was a blessing, as the inextinguishable appetite of the King for the flesh and woman beauty was now too hard to bear.

          But a party like this, ah… She reveled in the thought of seeing again monsieur de St Galle and the mysterious Comte de St Germain who always was the light of the party with his extravagant stories.

          The servant had finished to dress her for the night, putting her new powdered wig on the parakeet shaped wig-holder. She’d bought the wig with its lacquered holder in the morning from a small shop in Paris, which was had quite an aura of mystery she’d heard. Naturally she’d wanted to see for herself.
          The wigmaker was a gaunt and unassuming young man who notwithstanding made an impression on her. Jean-Baptiste’s wigs were simple and elegant, albeit not terribly inspired. His eyes, on the other hand, had a piercing yet soft gaze about them, and didn’t seem embarrassed to look at her, almost through her, as if she were a person, instead of the Queen surrounded by a retinue of bland people eager to please.
          “Let me draw you some fingers” he’d said to her, changing abruptly the topic from his rambling about books he was inspired to write about symbols. He’d forgotten the traditional address of “Your Majesty”, yet wouldn’t be stopped —regardless of the shocked expressions on the people’s faces.
          “You see, I love symbols, and when I draw people’s fingers, I can foretell events to come”.
          So that was it, she’d thought, the reason why everyone was ranting about him. He’d better be more inspired at that than wigs, as her patience was wearing thin.
          She’d had fortune tellers draw her cards a few times, but the fingers drawing part was curious enough to entice her into removing the glove off her eburnated fingers and letting him do his trick.
          An eldritch feeling crept though her spine as he was uttering words for each of the fingers he drew on with a slight pull of his hand, just enough not to crack the joints.

          In the bed warmed to a delightful temperature by the bouillotte, she began sliding into deep sleep, while a mixture of words half-forgotten or half-remembered danced around in her mind like the swirls of snowflakes dying on the warm window of her chamber: “funny moment, cold diversion, dream parade, house moustache pink, blue wonder carpets, possible king turned, green mirror travel, understand whole large parade”…

          #3009
          TracyTracy
          Participant

            It was the month of mass lunacy, and all through the house, all the creatures were snoring, except the mouse. All mad as Almad on the Rides o9f March, Mari Fe cackled out loud, then pulled a face, remembering the feel of the spongy mouse between her fingers in the kitchen sink. Expecting the blockage in the drain to be dog hairs, the surprisingly solid but spongy feel had been a shock, and the sensation had lingered nauseatingly.

            How long had he been in the mop bucket? Then it dawned on her ~ the dog leg riddle. Of course! He appeared just after the first dog leg clue ~ and no doubt left, via the mop bucket, when the dog leg riddle was solved.

            Mari Fe shivered, it was all rather spooky. No wonder she felt a bit mad.

            #2972

            “I still don’t know what we’re doing here, Glo. Azerbaijan in the middle of bloody winter?”

            “The nightlife, Sharon, the nightlife!”

            “So what do we do during the day, then? Besides freeze our ample tits off?”

            “Let’s have a cuppa somewhere and decide. I saw some lovely pastries in that cafe over there, come on.”

            ~~~

            Sharon licked the crumbs from her fingers and leaned over the table, whispering to Gloria. “Can’t help but eavesdrop, did you hear what those two on the table behind me just said? Something about buying carpets. I could do with a new rug for the bathroom, shall we follow them? They seem to know their way around here.”

            “I dunno, Shar, they look a bit tipsy to me. Look at all those empty Guinness cans.”

            #2078

            In reply to: Scrying the Word Cloud

            TracyTracy
            Participant

              fun summer somewhat hand free random wish heard whispered seen yurick alone life hear suppose raucous

              :yahoo_devil:

              “surprise others!”

              :yahoo_skull:

              “cave heads suddenly body!”

              :yahoo_party:

              “sudden self popped!”“ come words, following wondered told often; replied:

              :yahoo_chatterbox: :yahoo_waiting: :yahoo_ttth: :yahoo_not_listening: :yahoo_big_hug: :yahoo_dontwannasee:

              ~ “thinking thank fingers!” ~

              certainly thread moment, perhaps lovely away…..
              :creating_magic:

              #2418

              “You know, I could sit on a beach til the end of time” Shar remarked, letting the sand run through her fingers as they watched the sun go down over the sea, “and I’d never really understand how we started off as Sand ~ A Shard is nothing like Sand. Window, yes, I can see how a Shard came from Window, that makes sense ~ but SAND?….”

              #2652

              In reply to: Strings of Nines

              TracyTracy
              Participant

                “We walk, Ia’eh and Minkah, Desher and I,” Elizabeth read the email from Hypatia, “ towards the dark ridge of stone where the books lie hidden, awaiting the day they should be found again…..When Cleopatra ruled, the books numbered 400,000…and this, I think, is true. By the time of Theon of Alexandria, an age in which the books were no loner in the Great Library of the Palace of the Ptolemies, which was also no longer, but housed instead the “daughter” library of the Serapeum, they numbered 360,000. Those lost to the Bishop of Theophilus amounted to a tenth of these. But no matter if full half were lost, that Minkah brought out from Alexandria so many amazed me then; it amazes me still. He not only carried them here, but brought back an account of where each cave was sited, and which jars were placed in which cave.”

                Godfrey, didn’t we know a Minky once, who was a sort of a servant?”

                “We did indeed, Liz, you were the one who inserted him into the story, surely you remember?”

                “Well, the name rings a bell, Godfrey, but where did we meet him?”

                Godfrey snapped his fingers and as if by magic, an excerpt from the Reality Play appeared:

                “Just then a funny little man with a huge cheeky grin appeared and held out a tray. Smoothies! Coconut and berry smoothies, and pink cakes, croissants”

                “Croissants!” interrupted Elizabeth.

                “… and oranges, and a box of cadbury’s chocolates…”

                “Don’t remind me about Cadbury’s” groaned Elizabeth. “I simply can’t bear it that they’ve blinked into another dimension”

                Godfrey continued: “ Dory slurped and munched and gobbled and slurped some more, and underneath where the chocolate was, she saw a brochure.
                On the front cover was a picture of a cave. OOHH A CAVE! Dory loved caves! Let’s go to the cave today, Minky! she said to the funny fellow with the impish grin. Minky winked.”

                “He was going to take Dory to the caves!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Why didn’t I finish that story thread!”

                “There’s no need to wring your hands like that, Liz” said Godfrey soothingly. “You can continue it now!”

                #2398

                I ache all over… arrrrgghhhhhhhh Aspidistra was complaining on the phone all the while being intrigued by Harvey’s positively good mood.

                “Oh you know,” Harvey began to tell her “the secret of the hyper-mel mode (a.k.a. “HMM”) is to be happy and screaaaaaming at the top of your lungs all your merriness no matter whut.”
                “And of course,” he added, “punctuating it with occasional profuse weehooes (and some wheehoees now and then).”

                “Woa… I will need more coffee for that” she said yawning while Harvey was continuing “and put your hands in the air, your fingers mimicking stars glitter! Wheeeha katcha twinkle twinkleepooh!”

                “Oh, don’t mention hands, I dropped the milk twice this morning” Aspidistra was distraught again.

                “Owlright, and have you rejoiced on having milk spilled all over the goddess body?! Mmhhh? YES! YES!”

                “And I’ve got arthritis in my thumb!”

                “Uh-oh, arthritis… even better! rhymes with Weehooohees! … or giant squid… architeuthis!”

                “Achy tits, yeah…” she moaned plaintively. “And all that milk spilled with my poor thumbies…”

                “You see, you get the hang of it,” Harvey was bouncing “got to go dearee, spread the good joy,… see you soon! Weeee…”

                And off he was, hanging on Aspidistra while her ears where still full of the echoes of weehooees.

                #2385

                Almondus Blondor, the Keeper of the Old and notwithstanding Great portal of Nibabuz was on his way to Josephine Moodoo the Great Priestress of OzMoosis, and occasionnally witch-doctoress. It was for this last talent that Almondus had taken his day off. It was actually his first day off since the last century, but his arthretic was now becoming unbearable, and had on many times almost have him become nuts, a fate altogether far more enviable than the one of losing one’s head he would say (as he wasn’t truly a native Peaslander either).

                So, this arthrectic was painful, terribly painful, the result of considerable arrhythmical calculus mixed with jointless restlessness. A few times he had to mend his limbs back together, and feared the witch would blame his indulgence on koomaroo, a variety of sweet potatoes he craved at the expense of following the ancestral Peaslander’s peas and marmite toasts usual diet. For that, he was often call Mr Koomaroo by the little neighbours, those nasty pests.
                But as we said earlier (heed, heed, little Pooh), he was no native Peaslander either.

                So, during his day off, he had appointed his young apprentice, Bentworth Sadnick, a local and remarkably headless fellow, who wasn’t very wise for his seventy-year-young age ; as since the last decades, no one had tried to activate the Great and notwithstanding Rusty portal, he thought he could have that little day off without much trouble happening.

                Josephine would surely repair him in a snap of her delicately podgy fingers (they reminded him of delicious sweet potatoes) and everything would be forever again perfect… at least for the next ten decades.

                #2325

                “Mmm, they can use whatever politically correct word to say Ann isn’t having a serious case of Dissociative Identity Disorder, but frankly her speaking to herself would be really worrisome were it not for that all that Shifting around.” Growdon was discussing with Franny.

                “Yes,” she nodded with a soft and contagious smile, “doesn’t it look like she denies herself her physicality by burrowing inside the meanders of her short-span attention so deeply and carelessly?”
                … “Oh,” she added swiftly covering her fine lips painted purple with her long fingers, seeing the look on Growdon’s face “I’m not suggesting that… No, don’t be silly”

                Growdon was finding Franny so delicately considerate about their friend.

                He gave the thought a time to sift through his perceptive mind, while looking at the red roses of Geroges and Franny’s store, and had to come to the same conclusion. It definitely looked like Ann was always avoiding to flesh out her DID characters, perhaps out of fear of the dreaded lack of continuity or palatable tangible proof (that as much dreaded “P” word) of the reality of her visions. Truth be told, he and Franny and Geroges were finding her bouts of imagination quite fantastic on their own, they didn’t really need any proof whatsoever. But sincerely they all needed to get a grip!

                #2286
                TracyTracy
                Participant

                  Ann had unexpectedly found herself in the hot seat, so to speak, after using the bidet immediately after chopping up chillis in the kitchen. Pondered the symbology of the mishap, she couldn’t help but think of the word ‘rekindling’ and wondered if this might be of some use for Prof Moose’s assigment. Clearly, had she used a little more dish washing detergent on her long slender fingers, she wouldn’t have experienced the ‘rekindling’ at all.

                  #2283
                  TracyTracy
                  Participant

                    Chubby fingers? Ann examined her long artistic slender fingers for the umpteenth time. What on earth was Gremwick on about?

                    OH! Suddenly it hit her. He was writing about that probable Ann that branched off years ago, that bloated old alcoholic Ann. But she was still in the dark about that reference to detergent.

                    #2282
                    F LoveF Love
                    Participant

                      Ann knew what Monica was really thinking. Monica was thinking she had chubby fingers. Ann hated that.

                      “Uppity Tart’” she whispered spitefully under her breath. Then, feeling a tad guilty at her uncharitableness, and wishing she could be as inwardly lovely as old .. what’s her name, she quickly changed the subject.

                      “Apparently I am a challenge in the Continuity Class!”

                      #2281
                      EricEric
                      Keymaster

                        G3 (short for GGG, which was shorter for Good God Gordy) asked as if to himself “Anyone met the Fisherman yet?”

                        :fleuron:

                        Gremwick put down the Psychic Politics book he’d taken for his assignment, his five words written on a lemon coloured sticker:

                        Oof… here we go, “state — briefly — fisherman — library — pigeons”… There’s a bit of challenge here. he sighed, mostly uninspired.
                        “Perhaps I should have stayed with the easy words like ‘more, is, less, think, true’”.

                        :fleuron:

                        “Do you mean the Fisherman’s coming? How long has it been already?” Ann started to count briefly on her chubby fingers.
                        “Well, I guess if you’d be more assiduous in Pr. Rose’s class in bird divination, you’d found out that the pigeons’ flight was unmistakably precise on that matter.”
                        “I tried, believe me, I tried to pay more attention,…” Ann said, “but frankly, I prefer direct experience of the broom cupboard to the draughty corridors of the library…”
                        “Oh, I should say I’m a bit disappointed at you; I’ve always believed the state of dustiness would have been an incentive to you rather than a deterrent.”

                        “Don’t underestimate the incentive of detergent” Monica said almost mischievously under her breath.

                        #2595

                        In reply to: Strings of Nines

                        TracyTracy
                        Participant

                          “Just do it. Either just do it, or just make something up” she told herself. Again. “Either do it, or make it up, but stop thinking about it and talking about it.” Yoland sighed and turned on the radio. It was an old pink one, the kind with the dials that turn, and a pull out antenna. The antenna was a bit rusty at the bottom and didn’t rotate very well, which made it a bit tricky to get a clear reception without alot of preliminary juggling around and fidgeting. The dogs under her desk scratched themselves noisily as Yoland fiddled with the radio.

                          :yahoo_puppy:

                          “In the backwater….”

                          “…yes you’ve got the Splain Channel loud and clear now all you have to do is focus on what the next word is and then write it down without thinking about the spelling, as you can see you are looking at the keybaord and tryping”, Yoland smiled at the typo, “the words that you are hearing without trying to anallzye them too much now. ok are you ready? We’re going to do some balloon exercise first to get the ball rolling, you see, there are many ways to blow up a balloon, and I’ll be the first to tell you you’re doing it wrong, I am kidding, of course.”

                          :yahoo_oh_go_on:

                          Yoland smiled, inching forward on the chair to accomodate the dog that had wormed his way round her back, wondering whether or not to move him.

                          :yahoo_puppy:

                          “Your chair is fine the way it is, that’s a very common delaying tactic my freind, and one you are quite familiar with. Now, pay attention once again to simply the words that you hear as you are writing, watching the keys is rather mesmerising is it not….”

                          :yahoo_hypnotized:

                          Yoland did a quick reality check and agreed that she was feeling a bit mesmerized, and realized that she possibly could feel considerably more mesmerized if she stopped doing reality checks.

                          “…and as you watch your fingers moving along in a rather detached way, you can detach your attachment to knowing what the next word might be and simply write what you hear; we are practicing the sliding away from the strict hold on trying to anticpate the net words and then you freeze the flow, it shouldn’t be tiring if you let go and relax a bit and simply allow your fingers to move of their own accord while you relax your shoulders…”

                          :yahoo_chatterbox:

                          What a load of rubbish, thought Yoland, as she adjusted her chair, which had a habit of suddenly dropping down an inch, just enough to make it hard for her to reach the keyboard. Sighing, she wondered about ever getting a satisfactory answer to her Really Big Questions, the ones that nobody had answered so far. All she ever managed to tune into was rambling waffling inane….

                          :yahoo_sigh:

                          “….you feel that your questions are so large that the capacity for distortion is huge, and you feel that other questions are easily answered via other routes and methods, and this is correct.”

                          Yoland wondered what THAT was supposed to mean.

                          :yahoo_straight_face:

                          “Ok we can forget questions then and I will tell you a story.”

                          Yoland relaxed. That sounded easier.

                          :yahoo_big_grin:

                          “Once upon a time there was a beer fisherman from the planet of Oxbloodshire.”

                          Oh here we go, she thought. What’s coming next…

                          :yahoo_rolling_eyes:

                          “Whether or not you find clues in there is entirely your choice to create them, and all are equally valid. This is such a simple thing: that even the most seemingly miniscule sentences contain a myriad of potential diversions and convergences, routes, patterns, nets, from even the tiniest particle of an idea. All of them are boundlessly creative offshoots which become a particular stream, or string.”

                          :detective:

                          Yoland found herself wondering where some of them started, and found she didn’t know where to start.

                          “With the question of syncronicities every point of them is the start point, the end point, the main point, the moot point, and the connecting links as well, as are all the others. When you get your ball of string in a tangle, it’s easier to throw it away and start a new one.”

                          Yoland was inclined to agree, but wondered if that sounded like sensible advice.

                          :yahoo_thinking:

                          “Immediately the new one starts linking up all kinds of things in a new interconnected design pattern, and then when that gets in a right tangle, a fresh ball of string awaits; the tangled ones aren’t in a tangle at all when you’re not tangled up within it.”

                          Well, that certainly sounded resonable, Yoland had to admit.

                          :yahoo_star:

                          “And why waste time with old tangles anyway when you can start afresh and just make something up, for no particular reason?”

                          Bloody good question, why not indeed? Yoland decided to start making things up there and then, and turned her computer off and went to pack her case.

                          :bounce:

                          #2573

                          In reply to: Strings of Nines

                          TracyTracy
                          Participant

                            Arthur Bickerswell-Snodley had been delighted to receive Ann’s invitation to stay with her at Little Big Hopeswell for the May Day weekend. He hadn’t seen Ann for 570 years, although they had remained in contact through the years, at first by old fashioned handwritten letters, and later by email —as well, of course, by telepathic means and out of body rendezvous— but this was to be an actual physical visit.

                            Arthur travelled by train to Chipping Else Hampton, where Jibblington, Ann’s chauffeur and general dogsbody, met him in the old jalopy, a rather grand old Silver Ghost Rolls.
                            Jibblington, it must be stated, worked part time for Ann, as did the enigmatic cleaning lady, Franlise — both were merely aspects of much larger personalities elsewhere engaged in myriad pursuits. Jibblington was a much of a mystery to Ann as dear Franlise was, not to mention old Godfrey Pig Littleton. Godrey’s flooh, in point of fact, had been the catalyst behind Ann’s invitation to Arthur.

                            While Jibblington and Bickerswell-Snodley glided along the country lanes, cushioned and buoyant in the silver car’s plush, if a trifle vulgar, crimson upholstery, Ann tutted in exasperation as Godfrey pestered her to finish her latest entry to the Play.

                            “I haven’t finished it yet, Godfrey, sheesh!” she exclaimed. “OK, OK!” Godfrey was rather rudely drumming his fingers on her desk. “Here, you can read what I’ve written so far.”

                            :notepad:

                            #1241

                            Gloria wasn’t squeamish about ghost dog ether-dribble, having grown up with plenty of dogs about the place, of both the alive and ghost varieties, so she went over to inspect the mysterious object. Wiping the ether-dribble off with the back of her hairy forearm, she peered at the artifact.

                            “It’s a bit chipped round the edges, Sha, but it looks a bit like a tile. There’s a drawing on it, but I can’t seem to make it out, it’s all ingrained with muck.”

                            “Give it ‘ere” Sharon said, her curiosity getting the better of her. Gloria passed her the object and she spat on it and rubbed it with her fingers. Not unlike rubbing a magic lamp in anticipation of a Jeannie appearing, a strange symbol came into focus in crystal clarity on the tile.

                            3080060660_be26630888_m.jpg

                            “Blimey O Riley, our Sha!” exclaimed Gloria, “What in the name of Dicken’s it that?!”

                            Turning the tile over, Sharon exclaimed “Well, will you lookit this! There’s a message written on the back of it in some kind of code!”

                            3080060558_4d6cde7064_m.jpg

                            #1217

                            It took Akita a few minutes to come back to himself, and a few more to make sense of the situation.

                            At first he thought a huge six-eyed hairy creature was staring at him, but then the blur started to dissipate and he recognized by order of appearance, Sharon the divine, Gloria the brave, and Mavis the eloquent.

                            — Shtttt! He’s coming back!
                            — Are you okay? How many fingers do I have?
                            — Oh, shut up Glor, we’d better be quick before they all come back from lunch; rather carry him on my back than having to eat their bloody penguin grub once again!
                            — Oh, all my fur for a few scones with a cup of Earl Grey!

                            “Mmmm…” Akita managed to say “Where on Earth did you get those expensive fur coats? and why are you keeping them under your blouses?!”… “And where was Kay when he needed it?” he asked to himself.

                            “Oh, bugger it” shouted Sharon “no time for explanations, let’s move now! Chop, chop! Glor, you take the snet and the ropes, Mav’ all the watermelbombs you can get; and don’t blow yourself up; I’ll take Akitoo. To the snow scooters’ hangar! Now!”

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