Trainwhistle Jenkins, First Aids

Trainwhistle stops with a skid as the youngster runs out. Red, yellow, blue, yellow... The old coot grabs his head with his free hand as a mighty pain erupts in his ears over all this thinkin and what for. His grip on his wrench tightens as he shakes it off, back to a dull throb not unlike many he has suffered in his nether regions for some of his poorer choices in the whorehouses of Oiltown.

He mumbles, half to the pink pulp and half to hisself: "Boy, you shulda known not to mess with any science. Nor with any men in red. Most times ey'll be wearin it so'sn ey can git bloodier 'an a beat up prostitute at the end o her cycle and still look cleaner than my momma the day she died in the bleach vat." A flare in his eyes and and a bonfire in his brain, Trainwhistle Jenkins leaps forward, planning on painting the greenhouse red.

Checks and mates:
Spoiler
Show
Spot: (1d20+1)[12] (fer lookin inta the greenhouse)
Initiative: (1d20+1)[9]