their laughter can still maim

Peg and Jan Jansdaad are relaxing within the echoey confines of a natural-stone Friends' Hangar going through their ceremonial gifts from pilgrims, some items having taken thousands of fleke workers generations to craft and execute to scale. The ladies are looking pink and feeling loose having just returned from a roll in the sugar beet pulp hills by the refinery. Jan and Peg have the ability to speak with their minds only. However, on this occasion, they are disrespectfully mocking mouth-only speakers as they speak with their mouths only—to the delight of no one but themselves. 

This is my faux fur throw (though somehow its funk flows farther). Its tufts of fine-spun plastic in tight rows are so soft that you might think of lynx or click on chinchilla.

Glory! Its immensity, the size perhaps of a million rodent pelts, has dealt chaos for our weather patterns that can be felt from windy Jansterdam to the wet and sloppy roadside ditch rain up to the knees of the hard singing Chang K. Chang Chank drunk tank chain gang.

You don't have to tell me. I've done my time with a pick and an axe or maybe a sickle. 

You're making me hungry. 

Well haha, my goddess, I am not up in here for eating. That's not on the table. 

We both know that I could eat you at any moment of my choosing.

There are many leaps of faith one takes while investing time in a cross-species relationship.

You splain this? 

I remind myself for comfort. The lines are so faded. Who could blame anyone for stumbling across one of them and forever changing history?

At least for the dead guy. 

Both: HAHAHAHAHAHA!

Their powerful, screeching laughter makes use of a naturally selected vocal node that their ancestors had used to best effect as a method for stunning prey. Now Ks express their need to laugh only when they experience humor, usually tasteless or stupid humor. But their laughter can still maim or even kill. 

Phyllis [trans.]