Bugsnax: Gramblequest

Chapter 3

For many, many days, Gramble continued to knit, and knit well he did. Every stitch was irrevocably, evocatively, made with love - for it was absolutely necessary. With every concentrated gesture to close that loop, his soul felt a sense of closure, a justice of motific completion that reality had denied him. In his eyes, space was nothing but red & green and the other colours of the rainbow in that handbasket and time was all but a shadow. Weeks passed like days and days passed like weeks.

In a little nick that was next to the kitchen entrance lied the guest room. The alarm would always ring at 7, Gramble's mighty yawn echoing through the cramped household while he stretched his langly arms. Following a simpleton's breakfast - fried egg, toast and ketchup - he went outside to retrieve the local paper at his doorstep, which always arrived just in time for his breakfast to be over. Such inconveniences never bothered the chill pink Grumpus for there were much worse things in life to get angry about. It was also the most outdoors he'd ever get in a regular day, having no reason aside from the obvious to leave his place. He briefly savoured the fresh air and turned around towards his workplace.

That old musky armchair, that is, and the first floor being his homely quarters. The second floor was barricaded by boxes stacked upon boxes of (presumably) various knitting & knitting accessories. Why the already-isolated orphan chose to further isolate himself from the relatively-spacial and homely household was, for his sake, an answer best left unguessed. For now, the staircase made an excellent alternative to the teak shelves that still laid little kitsch glass & ceramic memorabilia from his grandparents' time. Passing them by he grabbed his well-worn needles, passed down from Nana Gigglefunny herself - and clocked in.

By 12pm, 3 caps were in the donation box. It was time for lunch, where he'd mix things up - before giving up and simply cooking another fried egg on toast. Why waste time that could be better spent on knitting finding food? He didn't need anything else. If he had to eat something different he'd outsource his tastes to Wiggle's refined palate during a food night. But if he really wanted to, he'd at least dare himself to drip a little hot sauce on the overcooked yolk - a dare that never failed to send shivers up his spine. But it was a Friday, so eh, why not.

While he ate the mild-mannered sandwich in between gulps of Strabby-branded milk to extinguish his taste buds, memories of his food nights, probably about 3 or 4 since the two's return, would gently reemerge. Right now, he was thinking of his first Granh-pi, a delectable sandwich of the East, at one of Wiggle's favourite pier spots while visiting the city. Crunchy lettuce and pickles with tender 5-spice marinated meat on crisp & fluffy submarine bread. Such a perfect compliment to the sunset that illuminated the tar-green sea of sludge into something magical...

No! He can't let himself drift away like that again. He needed to be disciplined, like his grandma always told him. You can't always be in your own world, she'd say. It makes you unproductive. He nodded in invisible agreement.

With lunch over, he picked up the local paper and proceeded the usual news-reading in obligation to snap back to reality. It was 1:00pm and he had to return by 1:30pm, so much time was needed to get his dose of worldliness for the day. Ah yes, the constants in life - war, famine, disease, taxes, Shelda starting her own cult in the Grumpizona desert...in a self-consciously cynical yet regrettably empowering way, it was almost reassuring to him that whatever he was facing in life, it was always less than what others had to face. With the dailies out of the way, into the recycling bin the paper went and unto the armchair again came Gramble.