Artwork commissioned from  KcD who apparently had much fun drawing these guys, here's hoping to more when she reopens.
Colouring, characters, writing bit, yadda yadda, all me baby.

Here we see the four Ladz, one big component of the Apartment cast, from left to right we have Butterpaws the Emonga, Norman the Mould, Argyle the Cacturne and Tom the Poochyena.

Okay so its just a trio, but Butty is immensely attached to Norman. All sixteen, all high-schoolers and each lucky with a lady.

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Terwang... tain... tain tain, twing.

"All things considered, bit of a slow night.", rather accurate words spoken by the morph making the most noise currently, simply adjusting the tuning on his metal bodied banjo for a lovely little finger-scraping session this Thursday evening. The occupants of Apartment 213 were rarely considered the quiet sort and indeed as Argyle the lanky knife-lover rested himself little bits of evidence were in plain view that caused this perception. Chief among them was the delightful Fire Extinguisher they had affixed to a badly reshaped metal bracket bolted into the brick-work, from the nozzle end dripped now foam from CO2, but instead dollops of squirty cream. Had been an absolute bugger to fill up and they'd lost a couple of pressurized pints in the early attempts.

Exactly why they had repurposed an old fire extinguisher was a large question mark hanging over many parts of their kitchen appliances, for one thing none of them liked cream... except for Butty when he wanted to try and give credance to his pathetic boasting attempts on the flip-flopping love-life he had with Krii. Never worked, he was such a lazy liar, as he was lazy in general unless there was the potential of breaking something, then suddenly he'd be springing around like a well thunder-shocked Meowth. For now though a small reprieve as he engaged in one of the few activities he cared about which didn't involve damaging acts, or movements which would start with the herald of doom 'Hey watch this!'.

Just quiet little paffits of a spray-bottle and light dabbings with a bit of kitchen roll. Butty was nestled comfortably on their uneven salvaged couch, on the large wide cushion that had once belonged to a delusional Rhydon mother of three that had smushed the other two segments. In one hand the spray bottle with carefully purified water, in the other, in a mug proclaiming 'touch my pokeballs' was the closest thing Butty had to a pet and in many ways an offspring, Norman.

Norman had started it's, umm... aromatic existence as a piece of old toast, that had fallen within the pried open slurping hole of a soda can, which had nestled inside the ferociously pungent goo of a half-eaten tandoori pot noodle. Through the weeks of humidity, Buttys own terrible hygene and a steady diet of biscuit crumbs, spilt coke and on one occaision a chunk of roughly pilfered birthday cake Norman developed into a furry heap. When Tom and Argyle finally had little choice but to engage in a scorched earth policy Norman was one of the few things Butty was able to grab in time before they sprayed disinfectant throughout the whole place, stuffing him inside a cupboard loaded with uh... 'borrowed' playmorphs from Argyle and the last fragments of his alarm clock. Then the two tackled the filthiest thing in the room, Argyle hooking his thorn-like fingers through the holes of Buttys ear and with a few slight pulls getting him into the bathroom where Tom switched on the hose.

It kept Buttys morale up during that whole ordeal knowing that life still remained in his room and he would cultivate it. Though the rubber-coated stick with a sponge on the end did break his concentration for a few minutes. Not to mention the borrowed gusts from a Pidgeot-morph who lived down the hall.

Since then Butty was meticulous in his care of Norman, naming it after the canteen head at the orphanage he and Argyle grew up in, the pudge and slimey texture were a dead match. The early days had been rough, trying to protect Norman against those interfering room-mates and their ideas of cleanliness, hell Tom used to live on the streets, so it was a bit rich that he'd come out with hygene advice... well that was Buttys opinion anyway and none in their group of friends believed it for a moment.

Another terwang shuddered at the Emongas holed ear as he gave a quick glance to the Poochyena in question. He wasn't entirely fond of the Banjo but knew, for now at least, that complaining would just make the night noisy and make him possibly forget to take down the notes of Normans diet today.

"Rags not coming over?", a question that filtered through the holes that made up a Cacturnes mouth. Stepping back from the kitchen with what could pass for the tilt of a grin, twirling a pair of replica kunai... blunted for now of course, blasted dealership laws... between his fingers. Tom not even removing his eyes from the string instrument taking up his lap and dexterity, "Nah not tonight, Krii roped them in for a chick-flick night-"

Moment of silence as both blokes turned their gaze to Butty, waiting... practically tense with the anticipation and then...

"Heheh..."

Yup there we go, for Butty the phrase Chick-flick became Lesbian Love-in. Took a few seconds though, obviously he was having thoughts on Normans future, how they laughed at him, how he will laugh when the blue-furred overlord spreads itself through the island!

".... Anyways, the flick started a little bit ago so we should be getting a call from her soon enough.", little chuckle clattering out from the Poochs throat on picturing his poor lass sinking lower and lower into the sofa as she totally failed to grasp why she should care about this wishy-washy bimbo and her inability to get a man at 32, oh wait, there's the reason, she freaks the hell out over every little thing.

The three remained doing their little private endeavours for some time until, as expected the phone rang. Argyle being the only one upon his feet took a moment to wait for the sudden, fully expected rush from the other two. But as a twing sounded out and Butty gave a little girlish giggle as he whipped out the tape measure for Norman... well Argyle decided he should get it. "Heyo Tab residence?"

Tom, Argyle and Butty. Was a nice thing to confuse fresh callers with and it usually got a small smirk from the girls when they dialed up. But what came down the line wasn't a laugh or a confused arugh?... instead it was a couple of taps, neatly spaced out and little else. Then it was repeated, Argyle finally ceasing his twirling of the black-steel blades and hooking the rings over his dextrous digits to grab the required materials, "Where's the deciphering book?"

Yellow surrounded eyes browsing through one of their shelves of utter crap and junk... well that was being harsh, only half of it was literal junk. No not joking there, talking spare parts from old lawnmowers, chunks of wheel-chair from last months overcharge incident... fucking Butty... ah there we go. Cub Scouts guide on Morse code.

Tom smirking as he caught the fragmented gold-leafing of the cover. "That Rags now?... what's she saying?"

"Dit-dat, dit-dat dat, dit... I don't know, give me a fucking second to look it over.", despite being the most reserved of the trio Argyle had the distinctive of being the most casually vulgar at all opportunities. It wasn't his fault, was a natural sociological evolutionary response to growing up with Butty, when he did something retarded of destructive... someone had to be around to yell Fer Fucks Sake and eventually his repitoire expanded to better fit the variety of dick-headed ideas the Emonga would get involved in.

With a flick the book was opened up, along with a scrap of notepad paper and the tiniest stub of pencil, Argyle struggling to actually catch it between his fingertips before jotting down the sounds being repeated down the phone. "Okay... yea got it, my heart goes out to you Rags. She says H.E... many times, L, quite a few and P plenty. Could be an acronym"

"Tell her I'll be round in a jiffy."

"She says N.O.W.... and probably nearly broke the receiver with that."

Another little chuckle from the Poochyena as he drew himself up, setting his banjo down by the worn out Laz-E-Boy, one of those fun chairs with the foot-stool lever, they'd even jammed in a small fridge but that was a bodge and a half. Off he went to rescue his mute lass from a film supposedly marketed towards her, oh the horror. "Want me to grab Rean while I'm there?"

The simple-minded love of the Cacturnes life, probably only stuck around with Krii because one day she said 'stay' and never overrode the command. "Oh god yes. Screw the quiet, I don't want to hear Flaps murmuring about the great Mouldapocalypse."