[ See, that couldn't have played out better even if Sans had sabotaged the squeeze bottle himself -- and he's pulled that prank before. Although the splatter of sweet, tangy, tomato-y ambrosia ends up getting all over the 'dog, a few additional wares, the table, and probably a bystander or two, Sans isn't bothered.
No, on the contrary -- he's laughing, a low, raspy chuckle rolling out of the skeleton for all that he apparently lacks lungs.
Go figure -- the 'hot dog vendor' doesn't even have a napkin dispenser, and he shrugs helplessly at the mess. Perhaps she got lucky, and won't have ketchup stains to clean out of her own attire?
Sans's shirt hasn't escaped, just something to join the other condiment stains in this slob's t-shirt. ]
Whoops. Remind me never to shake your hand. I like it where it is, thanks. [ He jokes, flexing his phalanges, then nodding at the thoroughly doused hot dog. ]
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No, on the contrary -- he's laughing, a low, raspy chuckle rolling out of the skeleton for all that he apparently lacks lungs.
Go figure -- the 'hot dog vendor' doesn't even have a napkin dispenser, and he shrugs helplessly at the mess. Perhaps she got lucky, and won't have ketchup stains to clean out of her own attire?
Sans's shirt hasn't escaped, just something to join the other condiment stains in this slob's t-shirt. ]
Whoops. Remind me never to shake your hand. I like it where it is, thanks. [ He jokes, flexing his phalanges, then nodding at the thoroughly doused hot dog. ]
Bone-appetit.
[ Does he seriously expect her to eat it? ]