At first Zeph and ninety-nine point nine nine nine percent of anyone watching the closing stages of the funeral either in person or remotely thought that Sprillia Spinnererett had just said the quiet part out loud. A slip of the tongue that let out her inner thoughts about Zeph. Then she just kept speaking. Removing any doubts about her intentions.
It was a damn proposal at a funeral with extra words and threats. It was like she couldn't think of the world: subtlety, even if it bit her on her new pair of very expensive very nice soft yet firm, and perfectly perky tits he was very quickly regretting buying her. It was very public, poorly worded, terribly timed, and had very far-reaching political issues, all made worse by her casual sprinkling in of the threat of thermonuclear-tipped torpedoes and missiles floating directly off the coast.
