The words just come as they always do. A flow of the slipping from him in a dramatic torrent. The table shakes beneath his feet but he is heedless of its protests. One or two tea cups have gone flying, kicked aside as he strides across the wood with this purpose. It is almost as if he is a man possessed, the story stretching on as if it has no end. But isn’t that the truth of it? The story never ends.

   But then it does.

   The Hatter’s words stop in a wheeze, mismatch eyes widening as his once animated limbs freeze. For a moment there is nothing, only complete silence, heavy and suffocating. Then his hands move, rising to his head and patting at the salt and pepper locks. He doesn’t find the hat and so fingers curl in his hair as he spins to take in the battlefield that has become his table, but none of that matters. His hat is gone, stolen from his very scalp. Whisked away by a thief.

【🔧】— “What’re you doin’? Gimme mah hat back!” The petite woman stood up on her toes to try and reach for the black ten gallon that Ben had swiped off, but to not much avail to get it back. Was he picking on her or something? She then pushed him and punched him, lightly, to try and persuade him to return it.

      “C’mon, Ben, give it!” On her third try, she attempted to climb on the 6′5″ ghoul like he was some kind of telephone pole, but with very little success. At this point it was almost sort of a game to try and reach for the hat back. Her cheeks were already starting to get red, either from frustration, embarassment, or just being flustered by the teasing

      “D’you got any idea how hard it was t’ find a hat mah size? Give it; I sunburn too easy out here!”

            ❝ What‒‒‒‒   can’t reach ? ❞    Ben chuckled, positively delighted by her attempts. He used the hat to fan himself, keeping it effortlessly up out of her reach. He leaned back in response to her attempt to climb him, which seemed to only encourage him.