ArchivedLogs:17:15 to Hell

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17:15 to Hell
Dramatis Personae

Jim, Peter


A terrorist tries to derail a train, and Peter and Jim decide to do their civic duty.


NYC Subway

The New York City subway is a place few want to be during the rush hour at the end of a workday, and yet it remains the busiest and most cramped network of closed spaces in the entire city. Hardly anyone looks like they want to be here. Combined with the fact it's the beginning of the weekend, it's Hell. Among the surprisingly varied collection of scowls, frowns and wrinkled noses, one will find a cacophony of boisterous conversations, heated arguments, constant ringing of phones and the occasional mechanical thumps of trains stopping. It's a nauseatingly noisy conglomeration of sights, scents and sounds.

Understandably, not everyone can maintain good manners in such an environment. The displeased grunts and exclamations of what that man should do with his mother are relatively easy to miss amidst this chaos. The culprit who upsets the crowd is a man who has little regard for obstacles in his path. Then again, judging by his sense of fashion, he isn't one to regard seasons, either. A fairly big man, he is thickly clothed, wearing a worn brown leather jacket, tight jeans that highlight his powerful musculature and plain filthy sneakers.

More peculiar still is what he wears besides that. A scarf is wrapped many times around his neck and lower face, big sunglasses cover his eyes and another portion of his face, while a warm black winter hat with a fuzzy ball on the back of his scalp conceals the rest. Finally, thick leather gloves hide his hands. None of the clothes look like they've been washed for days. Some might see him as a suspicious person; others might see him as a terribly hungover bum.

Whoever he might be, he carries a relatively thick stack of A4 papers, now and again shoving people aside in his path. What he also does is toss a seemingly random number of them out into the air before they flow down onto the ground. Anyone actually bothering to pick those up will see printed out pro-mutant propaganda, from cheap pun-infested slogans to history lessons equating mutated individuals to necessary progress. All of them at least mention the mutant-abusing fight club in a negative light. The man ultimately walks to the socially acceptable (and safe) edge of the platform's, well, edge.

Peter frigging Parker is returning from an /exhausting/ day of signing forms, reading disclosures, eyeballing contracts, and trying to figure out what frightening terms like 'Financial Credit Report Check' and 'OSHA' mean. At the end of the day, he's ready to go back home (in this case, Xavier's), throw himself into a bed for a good night's sleep, and -- /maybe/ -- prepare for a visit to the carnival tomorrow.

Peter's just hopping down the length of the stairs now, as the larger man with the stack of pamphlets show up -- dressed in a bright red hoodie, black dress slacks, and his funny looking two-toed socks -- not to mention his webshooters (one looks a little different than the other, though -- as if he were wearing two mismatched watches!). He's got on his nylon back-pack as he hops, shifts, weaves, and steps through the crowd, his hood up /tight/ and drawn close together (to hide his dark metallic blue face, of course!).

...ohheywhat'sthis. Peter's foot /skids/ across one of those pieces of paper; it sticks to the underside of his sole as he kicks it into the air, snatches it with his hand, and quickly scans to determine if it's a religious pamph--oh. /Oh/. Waitasecond, what /is/ this? He's now /peering/ at the big looking muscley fellow who's carrying that stack, eyebrows crumpling together in concern.

"-/watch it/, asshole." Further down the platform Jim /ricochets/ off the big man shoving through the crowd, instantly doing a reflexive inventory of his pockets before he remembers he does not /have/ a wallet anymore. He's wearing an old worn out button-up in pink and blue plaid, given to fray at one shoulder seam, over a wifebeater, tan cargo shorts, and yes those look like blue /bathshoes/ on his gnarly feet.

He's fleshy, which only means the livid horizontal scar tearing down the side of his face competes with the otherwise elastic surface, making everything into kind of a sneer - it helps that he probably /intends/ them to, or otherwise doesn't give a shit if they do. He's unwashed, smelling of damp and oil and greenplant, his overgrown hair falling across one eye.

Did he - hop up onto the platform /from/ deeper in the tunnels? It was pretty casual. No one gives a shit in New York. He finds himself /gripping/ one of the pamphlets himself. Takes one look at it. And crumples it up, utterly dismissive.

Some of the chaos of noises is reduced as the trains become momentarily absent. Like curtains on a stage, the barren view of train tracks opens up, along with the advertisement on the wall in the distance. Aptly, the advertisement is a part of the Human First campaign. Another handful of papers is flung into the air, disgruntling those who stand beside the thickly clothed figure. "Get away from you freak," a balding old man hisses at the stranger, backing away before returning his attention to his phone.

Still holding onto what is left of that decreasing stack of papers, the curious stranger decidedly steps forward, letting his massive body hop off the edge of the platform and crouching down. Finally, a few restrained gasps ripple through the crowd as for all but those closest to the edge, the man is no longer visible. In the man's stead, a fireworks of pamphlets begins, right before it starts raining profusely with pro-mutant propaganda.

But that's not what draws more attention; what ultimately manages to budge the New Yorker cynicism is the rhythmic creak and groan of bent and ruined metal. Despite having possessed a fairly calm and slow demeanour before, this man now moves with surprising quickness, delivering two quick but impossibly strong punches to one side of the tracks.

Peter watches big muscle cloth-man with a quirk of his head; the literature is still in his hand. He's /just/ on the threshold of crumpling it up and throwing it into a nearby trashcan, when -- oh /what/ the hell? Did he just -- oh /holycrap/! Suddenly, Peter is /zooming/ forward -- a bright red streak of speed that rushes right up to the very edge, as if he intends to catch the man before he steps off.

"Hey! Hey!" Peter's suddenly shouting, the pamphlet still held in hand, as he -- waves his arms! Frantically! "Hey get out from there there's gonna be a train /dude/--" And then there's the sudden punching. Followed by the creak of metal. And for a moment, Peter's nose wrinkles, his eyebrows pinching together, as he tries to -- assemble a picture of what the hell this is supposed to mean. Still kind of waving the literature in one hand, staring at the punchy-rail dude.

When Peter suddenly connects literature to punches, his eyes /pop/ open.

"-/jesus/ fucking christ." Jim is also shoving people aside with agitation as the big man drops into the /tracks/. "Dude, scrambling yourself's the dumbest fucking way to -." He goes dead silent after the first punch is laid down on the tracks. Call it cynicism, but he looks, for a moment just... bored. In need of a cigarette. Like he could use a nap.

Exactly when he is aware that the little bundle of /energy/ screaming at the platform beside him is /Peter/ doesn't really seem to matter. He glances down at the boy, thumps him with an elbow and growls out, "Find a guy. Worker here. See if he can't call ahead to stop the train." Then, as the crowd all begins to /really/ churn at the instinctively alarming sound of impacts, Jim turns, throws open his arms and starts yelling, "/Everyone/, get fucking /back/. You wanna die? Go, back off!"

Then he turns, drags off one of his BATHSHOES and throws it at the hulking muscular figure in the tracks, "HEY. You LISTENING t'me? KNOCK IT OFF. S'NOT WORTH IT."

The man proves to be surprisingly adept at multi-tasking, because while one hand establishes a suffocating grip on steel, mangling and mutilating it beyond recognition, his other hand darts to his side and upwards to attempt a grip on one of Peter's calves. "That's right. In exactly fifty two seconds," comes the feeble, muffled voice. There is definitely strength behind it, however. "An express train will pass through this station."

Should the grip miss, a handful of ground rock will be gathered by the criminal's other hand before being tossed at Peter. Should the grip connect, well, first and foremost it will tighten painfully. The shoe that Jim tosses doesn't manage to do much in the way of damage, although it does manage to knock off the man's sunglasses, revealing incredibly dry, peeling skin, as well as infinitely black inky eyeballs.

In the meantime, the crowd is finally starting to grasp the weight of the situation. Some stubbornly cling to the idea that they should be home for dinner, another loudly insists that this is probably some commercial trick for life insurance, but overall the crowd retreats with increasing speed. The commotion has summoned the authorities as well, for now a couple of guards scrambling to rush down the stairs. Unfortunately for them, there awaits their first obstacle - a retreating crowd.

At the sudden presence of Jim -- along with that elbow thump -- Peter squeaks! And nods his head. And turns to run off and -- AUGH AUGH AUGH WHAT IT'S GOT HIS LEG. Peter yelps, and proceeds to /flail/, before -- THWP THWP THWP -- three strands of silver are now connecting him to a nearby column; he /yanks/ on them, suspending himself into the air, even as his other leg is -- KICK! KICK! KICK! -- at the heavy man's head. "LEGGO! AGH! HE'S GOT ME LEGGO LEGGO--"

Oh, well /shit/. There are now /droves/ of voices all screaming out different things so Jim just stops worrying about the crowd when there is a hand latched onto this KID that is NOT GETTING LOST again. Jim's one bare foot lifts up and slams down to stomp at the bigBrute's wrist. His feet are rather /hardened/ suddenly. He stomps with... his hands in his pockets. For. Fuck's. Sake. Eyes are scanning rapidly from over his shoulder and then up the tunnel where a train will be coming at any moment. "- we gotta get the fuck outta here." He says it. Not yells it. Just says it, kind of undertone, around the short 'hffs!' of kicking.

The man's head proves to be surprisingly dense, and not just in the figurative sense. Still, despite the feedback of there being a strong opponent, Peter's kicks are enough to continuously nudge the man's head backwards with each kick. The bunch of pebbles that the other hand has gathered is let go, and the man straightens-- Something else has caught his attention. /Someone/ else. Those inky eyes seem to regard Jim, as that hardened foot managed to bring the wrist back down resoundingly against the concrete. Curiously, the grip unravels only after the arm is brought down, implying either submission to pain or voluntary cooperation.

The same hand drags itself forcibly back, and the close proximity makes the hold on Jim's ankle certain. It is the tree-man's turn, now. "Thirty three," he counts, pulling at Jim with great force, aiming to spin him at a dizzying ninety degree angle before attempting to discard him at a moderate speed towards the Human First ad. Superstrength, check. "They will feel the pain that we felt!" he exclaims, even if his voice remains weak and laboured.

In the meantime, one of the security officers successfully braves the opposing flow of people, while his comrade has far lesser luck. The young man hastily grips the handle of his gun, rushing towards the incident.

The moment the man releases Peter's calf, the elasticity of those three threads /snaps/ them back -- catapulting Peter toward the column. He lands with a THWCK -- feet-and-hands first -- like a frog clinging to the tile.

It's then that Jim's being slung toward the far wall -- simultaneous to Peter's eyes widening, as he hears what the man on the rails says. Thirty three. "People," Peter shouts to Jim over the crowd -- the yells, the chaos -- "are on that train--" And then, suddenly, he's gone -- the last glimpse either of the two might catch of him is a flash of red and two threads of gleaming silver as he fires web-lines at either side of the tunnel the train's traveling down, kicking back off the column /hard/ as he /slingshots/ himself down that corridor -- and starts building up speed, /webslinging/ his way toward the incoming train.

"Dude," Jim's leg is hard as greenwood, more likely to creak under pressure than squish, and his hands stay in his /pockets/, "I don't give a cold wet damn about your-ohshitFUCKYOUINTHE-" WHAM. It's a HARD, crunch-sound of a log smacking into a hard surface the long way, Jim splayed out in classic SPLAT FORMATION against the wall, his snarl-bared white teeth standing out /stark/ against a body bone over to treebark. And then he crumples down into the tracks. He's instantly trying to drag himself up to hands and knees, sharp projectile-branches starting to form in shallow spikes around his shoulders and elbows.

The thing about being on hands and knees is it's very close to /track/ formation just short of taking off. Jim goes with this, piledriving /bodily/ towards the bundled man, head down like a linebacker, "-just wanted to get some /fucking groceries/!"

The unidentified would-be mutant calmly watches Jim crumple to the tracks and then start to grow sharp spikes in what is no doubt a preparation to retaliate. Much to the officer's dismay, just when he arrives and lifts his gun to point at the perpetrator, he finds himself forced to delay the shot. "God /fucking/-- Hands above your heads! Both of you! Get off the tracks, /now/!"

The transgressor does not seem to care. He allows Jim to charge him, forcing him all the way back to the wall of the platform, damaging concrete somewhat from the force. Clothing is pierced, and smoe blood inevitably splatters on the tracks and even some on Jim. But his opponent does not relent, instead attempting to soften Jim up by an elbow to the back, following by a steadfast grip which would lead to him spinning Jim /yet again/, this time to slam into something less symbolic - the very concrete wall the burly stranger has been pushed against.

In the meantime, Peter will find that the train is not very difficult to find. Then again, a train is hard to misplace, especially when it's less than a half of a second away from reaching the mutilated track. The teenager will have to appropriately alter his course if he's just been following the tracks, because that train is still heading for the point of tragedy at a remarkable speed, despite the occasional flash of sparks that fly from the deafening screech of the brakes. The people inside are unsurprisingly in a state of panic, some can even be seen pushing one another as they scramble in the inescapable tin trap. In some cars, however, passengers can actually be seen not giving more damn than superficial concern and annoyed discomfort.

There are two immediate problems Peter encounters upon reaching the train. Both are problems of pure physics: /First/, Peter is hurtling at high speed in one direction; the train is hurtling in high speed in the /other/ direction -- he's more or less about to become a bug on a windshield. /Second/, exactly what the fuck do you do to stop a massive subway car screeching down the rails at high speed anyway?

Peter solves the first problem the instant he sees the train's headlights in the distance (which turn out to be about two instants before he'd be /splatting/ against the front-end of the train /anyway/). Instead of continuing to sling himself forward, he fires /backwards/, arms both snapping rigid with a sharp, angry /flare/ of pain that spears up his shoulders; suddenly, the cords are stretching with an elastic creak and he's launched in the /opposite/ direction -- just as the train catches up to him, his feet whumping hard against rigid metal and plate-glass.

The second problem is a little trickier. Peter's foot /slams/ against the plate-glass coating that separates him from the interior of the main car a total of three times; the first time, it just whumps -- the second time, it cracks -- the third time, it /buckles/, crashing inward. That takes about five seconds. The last ten seconds are spent -- tearing off his left (and more recent) webshooter, snapping the secret DO NOT SNAP THIS SWITCH switch underneath it, pumping the secret DO NOT PRESS THIS BUTTON button three times, and -- with a final whimper -- /hurling/ it behind him, at the track ahead -- as he dives into the front car. And proceeds to -- with his remaining webshooter -- THWP THWP THWP THWP THWP THWP -- everything he sees.


The webshooter he threw ahead makes a single, warbling beep before -- *crkt*. FWOOOM. The pressurized contents /explode/, a massive white elastic /foam/ rushing out to fill the tunnel ahead of them.

There is no rushed expulsion of air when Jim is elbowed in the back - just a hollow, inanimate 'thunk' that he generally is /ignoring/, slamming his fist up in into the Mysteryman's gut on straight mother fucking REFLEX before his legs -- leave the ground again with a kicked of spray of gravel. There's the world, spinning past his eyes, coming to an abrupt stop when he's slamming into the concrete and crumpling again to his knees with a thin groan.

He doesn't hear the nice officer's orders. He's suddenly transfixed by that whirring telltale hum reverberating up the line of the tracks below his hands. A single glance up the long deep throat of the access tunnel, filled up with the single livid EYE of the train's headlight is enough to send him /bailing/ on this fight, leaping for the edge of the platform to scramble to get clear in time, frowning GRIMLY.

Besides the necessary response that the kinetic energy of Jim's punch carries, the mysterious assailant does not budge otherwise. Perhaps the damaged skin is an indication of his insensitivity? Whatever his ability might be, the man remains firmly standing, watching Jim retreat from the fight. Like cats after a quick and intense fight, both of them scatter. Yes, even the terrorist begins to flee, his sprinting stride powerful and fast, ensuring that the shots that follow miss every single time; to say it's only the speed that makes the poor young officer miss would be not true - nerves play a part. Harmed yet undaunted, the masked stranger bolts down the tracks, further into the tunnel and the darkness.

All the while, a commotion shakes the train's innards. A kid running through a passenger car in a train yelling a command to stay down might normally have very little effect. But even the jaded atmosphere of the New Yorkian subways melts when the train is using emergency breaks and the kid is firing a potentially /toxic/ substance everywhere! Unfortunately for Peter, a good number of people he runs past actually begin to scramble in their purses and pockets to withdraw their belongings, thinking the boy is the reason things have gone awry.

Their concerns with their material positions prove to be the least for their worries. The foam that rapidly expands before the rushing train successfully achieves what it was meant to do - the train never makes it to the damaged track. What happens instead is that the front car sinks into the foam, tearing at it and desperately trying to make through. The unyielding stubbornness on both parties' ends results in bent chassis and shattered glass. Panicked screams subtly yet noticeably shift into pain-filled exclamations.

As far as such massive pressure is concerned, physics dictate that if there is no room, it shall be forcibly made. The wheels of the cars before the front-most one pop free from the rails, and the mid-section of cars swerve to the left side, knocking over onto their flank, tearing through columns and dragging all the siblings behind with them, sans the very last one. The foam's been torn through, the mangled front of the first car nudged a dozen yards further still. The noise roars and echoes throughout the tunnel and even the station, the mutilated nose of the vehicle curiously peeking through into the stop proper.

Peter's gripping his web-lines through the worst of it; the sudden grate of steel -- the flicker of lights and sparks, the crinkle of the chassis as if it was merely tinfoil -- Peter's teeth are grit through the whole process, eyes squeezed shut, hoodie drown close as he just squats and /hopes/ everyone doesn't die. There's a WHUMP-CRSH sound of concrete columns being shattered against the body of the train; rushing clouds of powdered stone -- the stench of burnt rumple -- the sounds of screams above the screech of metal tearing across metal -- and then... then...

Peter's left eye pops open, surveying the interior of the train through the flickering lights. The smoke, the confusion... oh. Oh. /Oh/. Hey. They're alive. Apparently. As he moves to set a foot back down on the floor, he feels a bolt of pain; /oh/, hey. And apparently he sprained his ankle. He tries the other one; oh, okay. /Both/ ankles. Well, that's. That's okay.

Out here at the platform, anyone that hasn't managed to flee has dropped to its knees in a single wild-eyed unison, one brave officer possibly even managing to make it a marksman's kneel, though when the screech of tracks turns into an ominous thundering roar and an eruption of dust and gravel spewing from the tunnel, he ducks down behind his gun to protect his face.

Jim waits it out, hunched over with his arms folded in an undignified X over his head as the world transforms into an eerily silent aftermath of thick dust churning eerily over the sound of bits of... debris. Falling to the ground from deeper in the tunnel.

Yeah, Jim's the fuck out of here. He rolls over off the side of the platform as a few shaky voices begin to murmur from the crowd and, coughing in the dust, he strolls into the tunnel while fitting a smashed cigarette into his mouth. He has to slow down, turn sideways, step /over/ broken slabs of concrete and duck under strings of taffy-stretched web. And at a certain point, he just - bangs a fist on the side of the smashed up first car, "Gotta roll, kid."

The officer's companion just manages to sprint to a gradual halt beside his friend, as the near-instantaneous tragedy is averted before their eyes. This one's a bit older, although even he looks to the train peeking into the station with wild eyes. "Shit. Come /on/. Who the fuck was that guy?" As Jim makes his retreat, the older of the two officers shout after him, "Hey, hold on!"

The medics, the media and the firemen are no doubt on their way already. The liberal spreading of pro-mutant propaganda may go ignored in the New York subway, but a derailed train shits up the status quo enough to bring down a swarm of authorities to deal with the issue.

Peter may have sprained his ankles, but others seem to have had worse luck. Pained groans dominate the car, and one woman weakly declares through sobs, "H-hand... Arm's... stuck!" Indeed, her right arm is stuck beneath the crushed seats; blood has trickled down her temples, but she seems otherwise uninjured. The problem is, she is not the only one - some are lucky enough rise with but a future bruise and some abrasions, but all cars slowly begin to throb with the whines and wails of pain. Yet despite the grim sight of the derailed and tortured train, deaths have been avoided entirely.

THWP. The silver line latches to the wall just above Jim's shoulder. Step by excruciating step, Peter drags himself out of the ruptured remains of that smoldering, smoking chasis. Through cries of pain, ragged coughs, moans -- toward Jim. Head down, red hood hiding his face. Until one hand reaches out to grasp the glassless windowpane, pulling himself up -- the other hand extending out for Jim's shoulder. And then, Peter's head lifts -- breath ragged -- and...

"...did you /see/ that?!" Peter /squeals/, eyes as wide as saucers. "I stopped. A /train/. Oh my /GOSH/ that was awesome nobody's dead right? Oh -- oh /crap/ I wasn't wearing my mask I didn't --" Peter /shakes/ Jim's shoulder, frantic. "I JUST DID THE MOST BADASS SUPERHERO THING EVER AND I DIDN'T /RECORD/ IT." This is, apparently, the most important thing.

The pained wail gets Peter-the-Gloryhound to stop, for a moment; he glances over his shoulder, expression pained. "...ohman. People are -- ohman I should --" He's starting to let go of Jim's shoulder, as if intent on slinking back /into/ the train. To help.

CLAMP. Jim's arm launches after Peter through the window to try and snag him by his god damn /scruff/ (well, the back of his hoodie) like the boy's some wobbly-legged little kitten straying too close to an /edge/, "Yeahno." Just. Yeah. No. /Haul/. "This guy just crashed a fucking subway train in New York City. In about point-eight-seconds this place is gonna be crawling with people a lot better at dealing with trauma injuries than you are." HAUL HAUL. He's trying to just. Drag Peter out the window. Onto his shoulder. Like a dead deer he can wander off with. And he adds, very brightly! "And some of 'em'll have /guns/. You hurt?"

"Frank, come on!" The older officer grunts as the two finally approach the sight of the disaster. Now that the crowd's finally out of the way and the path is wholly clear, they catch up pretty quickly to where the train has stopped. The officers carefully hop down the platform, noting Jim and Peter. "Hey!" the young man yells. The older one follows suit as both of them lift up their guns halfway to an aiming position. "Stay there! We need to bring you in for questioning!" Behind them, an echo of further footsteps can be heard, as well as loud vocal indications of what happened and where it happened.

"Nngh," Peter responds as the hand /clamps down/ on the scruff of that hoodie and hauls him out. Hang in there, Petie! He flails a bit toward the injured people like -- some sort of kitten pawing at its rapidly retreating food dish. NOOOO BUT JIM! People! Flail, flail! But then he's on top of a shoulder with a little grunt and:

"My ankles, I think. Um. I think they're -- sprained maybe I dunno. I can't /believe/ that worked. The train, I mean. I've never even -- tested the self-destruct function, like, /whoa/," Peter says, eyeing some of the taffy-stretched lengths of dangling webbing with wide-eyed wonder. "I'm /really/ glad it worked though cuz I'm pretty sure we'd all be dead if--I stopped," Peter insists, yet again, "a /train/. I am frigging--"

And then there are officers. With guns. Peter /instantly/ tightens on Jim's shoulder; one arm coils around Jim, the other -- the one with a webshooter -- extending out. "...go," Peter says, and then -- THWP THWP THWP THWP -- there are web-balls /flying/ out toward those guns, aimed to -- SPLAT roughly against their surfaces, the officers' wrists -- binding them to them. Some might miss and hit the officers' chests; Peter's just firing until he scores a hit.

"Yep." Unlit smoke still gripped in his teeth, Jim is taking off, ducking around broken slabs of tunnel wall and vaulting over rippled-warped streaks of torn off siding, one arm locked down around Peter's legs, the other thrown up over his head to keep from bashing himself in the forehead or ripping off a piece of his scalp from some low passage he can't see through the smoke and dust.

"...stopped a fucking train." Muttered at a pant. Like it's ANNOYING. He's heading for the first service tunnel that branches off from the tracks. He's gotten to /learn/ these tunnels; he is going to fully capitalize on it, ducking left, banking right, doing anything to make life HARD for those that might be trying to follow.

"Fuck, /what/?" The older man couldn't possibly be any more pissed. He actually struggles against the webbing, but it obviously refuses to give way. At this point, the young man is completely confused and lost. For a moment, the wisened bearded fellow actually considers running after the pair, but then reconsiders. If the young man is too green, this guy's too old for this shit.

A trio of other officers run up to them from behind. The older officer turns to them. "We need medical attention. He got /this/-- stuff all over us. We don't know what the fuck it is." One of the guys that arrived speaks up sternly, "More people are on the way-- Stay here. Where's the guy behind all this?" All this time, Frankie is trying to free his hands from the gun. There's an echo of a shot fired into the ground, and that's when he finally stops struggling.

The older colleague glares at him before he looks back to his other companions. "In the other direction, we really need to send a search party there ASAP." Another guy from the new three nods. The men scramble, and so the rescue operations begin.

As Peter is dragged by Jim into the tunnels -- and as the officers struggle in their restraints -- Peter calls out to them, as loudly as he can manage: "USE VINEGAR! TO DISSOLVE IT! LOTS OF VINEGAR--" Echo, echo, echo.