There was a time in his life when Rasmus was much more fluent in the ways of flattery, particularly when it came to conversation. He'd actually prided himself once upon his ability to schmooze with the best of them, as the so-called upper class was once considered. Then he realized it didn't matter. It didn't matter how much loose-lipped schmoozing one did, that didn't change the fact that most people were snakes — lying through their teeth and putting on affectations. That was why he rarely censored himself anymore. He didn't see the point. People were either going to like him or hate and it didn't really matter in the end which side they chose. Rasmus could spend his entire life sucking up to tight-fisted know-it-alls or fresh-out-of-the-box prima donnas and it wouldn't make a difference. People always lied about who they were and what they wanted.
Rasmus's rather cold and undiluted honesty was his way of pushing back against that current. He liked to think of himself as direct. Sometimes that came off as being a jerk. But at least he wasn't sugarcoating his disposition. Not anymore, at least.
Even if it did result in him hiding the fact that somewhere, underneath that pale skin and uncombed hair, was a genuinely nice guy who was just in desperate need of some friends.
"I didn't say anything," he said, the slight downturn of a pout playing on his lips when Carol huffed and left the room. "Do you pan fry them or fricassée? I was always under the impression that three-eyed mice taste best when they've had a chance to soak up the juices of a good sauce. Something creamy. With mushrooms."
Rasmus leaned back and exposed his stomach so she could continue with her palpitations. He had absolutely no signs of appendicitis. And when she pressed against the region of skin just above said organ, he had no reaction. When she pressed directly around the navel, however, well, there was a little bit of moaning and groaning. Because, let's be honest, this was a simple case of bad eating habits.
Point in fact, he just had a bad stomach ache.
"Really? Because if I knew I was dying I would eat whatever I like to eat the most seeing as how it would probably be my last meal. Not macaroni and cheese, of course. But I'd keep pizza on the list. Maybe clam chowder."
He winced when she pressed her fingers against his belly. He hoped he didn't throw up on her nice shoes.
He looked up at her with a pair of pathetic eyes.
"Is it bad? How much time do I have left, doc? Can you give me my last rites?"