Alan bypassed Murphy's outstretched hand, and passed the man by completely; heading for the log-book. "That hog was marked as out of service! I did it myself!" Alan picked the book up and stared at the small box for the warthog that Murphy had just brutalized.
"What the...." Alan muttered, scrubbing his thumb over the small tick and his signature; as if hoping they would rub off. "Oh," he mumbled, scratching the back of his silver-haired head. "I must be going as mad as a box of pickled brute balls." After crossing out the tick and confirming in the book that the warthog was indeed out of service, he turned to Murphy and shook his hand apologetically.
"Sorry for shouting at you, the old noggin' isn't working as well as it used to. If you want a warthog that's actually working, follow me, i'll show you one. As long as i can remember myself," he added ruefully, beckoning for Murphy to follow him.
"What the...." Alan muttered, scrubbing his thumb over the small tick and his signature; as if hoping they would rub off. "Oh," he mumbled, scratching the back of his silver-haired head. "I must be going as mad as a box of pickled brute balls." After crossing out the tick and confirming in the book that the warthog was indeed out of service, he turned to Murphy and shook his hand apologetically.
"Sorry for shouting at you, the old noggin' isn't working as well as it used to. If you want a warthog that's actually working, follow me, i'll show you one. As long as i can remember myself," he added ruefully, beckoning for Murphy to follow him.