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"HEY!" you growl-screech at the ceiling. "FUCK YOU, ZUCCHINI!"
Her laughter comes to a sudden, strangled halt.
"I'VE TAKEN SHITS BIGGER THEN YOU, YOU LITTLE TWERP!" you howl, flailing about like mad. "AHRGH OFF, OFF, OFF ME!" you almost scream, tearing at the stiff, rubbery tentacle still wrapped around your throat. Staggering upright, you kick the dead Martian as hard as you can, lifting it an inch off the floor. "FUCK, YOU, I BARBECUE OCTOUPUZZ!"
From behind you comes the sounds of strangled, helpless laughter. Turning, you see Ian, slumped against one of the honeycomb-like girders, absolutely helpless with laughter. His chest is heaving, but he barely has breath to wheeze more laughter.
"What?" you ask incoherently.
Ian raises his right hand a little, drawing your eyes to his sidearm - a big, heavy Colt 1909 revolver chambered in .45 ACP, which he held onto even after 1911s were issued in their stead. He fumbles a half-moon clip out of his pocket, and makes a weak motion to reload his pistol, but the laughter takes him again and he slumps, unable to move.
Above you, that fucking Italian bint starts laughing again. "Ya look like you were trying to shit and scream at the same tiiiIIIIIIIEAAAAAAAH!" she exclaims, plummeting from orbit. You look up in time to see her snag a honeycomb girder before she drops too far.
From the roof of the odd vessel, other Witches come tumbling down, all of them managing to catch themselves with some amount of grace - except Gertrude, who just bounces off a few girders. You lunge to catch her in your arms, except 110 pounds of falling girl aren't easily stopped. Instead of catching her, you cushion her fall.
"T-th-thanks," she stammers, scrambling off you. You groan with pain. At least the hum is gone.