You take it like the straight-up motherfucking hard RENAISSANCE NINJA that you are, because even if it were poisoned, Rose Lalonde has helped raise in you a wicked-nasty tolerance to the human range of toxins, not least of which is the legendary Sicilian iocane powder. Between her ministrations and Bro's home "cooking," the only thing that now gives your stomach pause is bovine lactose.

You choke the bacon down with as much dignity as you can muster, clear your throat, and give her the coolest, slightest of cool, slight nods.

"It's like all the pseudo-maternal love you poured into the frying pan of your soul is melting on my tongue. It tastes like cow grease."

She is pleased, though Bro groans. She releases your ear to swat the back of his head, and, for some reason, he does not dodge. "Good. Now, could you two do me a favor and set the table? If you have a table." She glances over her shoulder, then returns to the sizzling strips of dead animal on the stove. "It seems your brother and I have made something of a mess."

"This is downright fucking unladylike," Bro grumbles, hopping off the counter.

"I'm sorry, Dave, darling. Next time I'll try harder not to upset your maidenly delicate sensibilities."

After all this time, you still understand jack shit about their relationship.

Dirk: Ask about the mess.