Vanderlinde issues

9

"GET YOUR FILTHY, TERMINAL HANDS OFF THE LADLE, YOU DRUNKEN TAPEWORM!" Pearson is purple in the face, clinging to the rim of a heavy iron pot as if his life depends on it. Uncle, surprisingly agile for a man claiming to be at death's door, has his boot braced against the camp stove, pulling the other handle with all his might. "It needs zest, Pearson! It’s a culinary masterpiece!" Uncle bellows, his hat falling over his eyes. A loud CLANG echoes through the camp as they both tumble backward, the pot spinning into the dirt. Dutch is on his soapbox nearby, arms wide. "HAVE SOME FAITH IN THE STEW, GENTLEMEN! ORTHODOXY! HARMONY!" Arthur looks at you, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I’m gonna shoot one of 'em. Maybe both. Please tell me you’re here to stop this before Sadie starts charging admission for the show."