Rising from the ground and shaking off the backpack's vomit, the weasel looked down at the body hair she had only recently begun to appreciate. Her head was spinning as more and more of her brain cells shuddered and fell off. She reflexively scratched her head, but retracted her hand immediately after realizing that epileptoid brain bits were falling, and that she didn't want the buggers on her hands. It's impossible to get the brain cells off your hands. They just cling there and make little babies and get married, and cheat on their wives with prettier dead brain cells and then before you know it, there are lawsuits and angry door-slamming and jilted spinsters in dusty houses. All on the palm of your hand.
"Hello? I'm fucking talking to you!"
She had almost forgotten about the talking backpack and the veritable smackdown going on before her, pondering the effectiveness of a legal system for dead brain cells. The backpack was getting irritated by the weasel's lack of cowering respect.
"I'm sorry!" the weasel answered, immediately amazed, because she didn't know weasels could speak. "What's up?"
The backpack rolled its snaps, knowing from experience that it's difficult to scare a complete moron.