Blacktail Deer Plateau Husks and shells

"Watch yourself, fuckknuckle," Peregrine warned, albeit without any malicious intent whatsoever. "I just might drownocate you in this stuff." Because it was just the right consistency to fall somewhere between drowning and suffocating. That's what was happening to his fleas right now, he hoped.

Thinking of his fleas made him think of Fox, which made him itchy in a good way. He wanted to find her and tell her about his muddy flea dip. He hated to cop out on Finley but there was something hilarious about the thought of leaving her here, wallowing in the mud alone, possibly stuck until someone came along and rescued her...

"I think my fleas are caput. Thanks for the brill idea, ficklefuck. I'm gonna go now. See ya!" With a grotesque squelching noise not unlike Velcro ripping loose, Peregrine sprang out of the mud pit, gave Finley a last wink, then galloped away into the woods, fully planning on greeting his wife with a filthy bear hug to pay her back for giving him fleas in the first place.