Choco Werehound Brute was hunched over a wobbly crate, his massive Roll Cake Hammer leaning against an oil drum nearby. His posture was relaxed, though his paws were carefully managing a tiny, slightly chipped porcelain teacup. The brim was decorated with delicate forget-me-nots.

She closed her eyes and took a quiet, appreciative sip of the strong Earl Grey.

"Ah, the tannic structure is exquisite," it murmured to itself. It caught itself instinctively cocking its pinky finger outwards, and his eyes snapped open in horror. He immediately clamped the disgraced digit back down, flattening his hand against the cup as if trying to brutally suppress his sophisticated past.

"Stop. Brute. Must be Brute," she hissed. "This is simply fuel! Fuel for the coming mass destruction! A refined palate is necessary for optimal villainy..."