Dwight must think my toes are dipped in tier III (nerfed) BBQ sauce, the way he's trying to sneak a chop-a-roni with his pointy fangs. I have just painted my toenails in a purply glitter shade called "Stacks!" by B.H.V.R. Cosmetics and am lying on my bed with my feet dangling to the winds so they can dry.
"Guess what, little slave, you're gonna have to get your grub on somewhere else," I coo to the raggedy boy with short black hair whom I love more than life itself. "I, David King, supa divette-in-training, cannot afford to have Dwighty-tugged tootsies."
Meg isn't sure what breed Dwight is, because she and Claudette adopted him from the entity before I was abducted. But when all the toxic 4k hour survivors in the trials stop and ask me, I say that he is a human pet instead of a "slave" (that's what I call him). It sounds more hoity-toity, and trust: that is a plus on the Red Ranks, where I queue.
I stick the bottle of nail polish in my new cheetah backpack. I hold up my hands, and it looks like a thousand glittering starts are bouncing off my Stacks!-painted tips. "Awright!" I tell myself. "This girlina-rina is going to get herself noticed by first gen pop. Red Ranks, at last!"