"Flark?" says Alex with a raised eyebrow, now biting down hard on his lower lip to keep from snickering at the sheer absurdity of the sight. He'd say that Christmas has come early but apparently it really fucking has. This is beautiful. A raccoon is giving him a fucking weapon. And like - not just any weapon, but a futuristic alien spinning thing. Hell. Yes.

He takes it with enthusiasm, grinning, and tries without success to do the alien equivalent of cocking and loading it.

He whistles, as if he has any idea what he's doing. He doesn't, but, you know, it's the principle of the thing. "You, uh, you do this often, hotshot?"