Qoslacheim

Qobert looked at his friend. "You know what time it is," he told Qoseph.

"That I do," Qoseph said mournfully. "Time to enter - that house."

He pointed.

"Well. Yes," Qobert said, somewhat taken aback. "I mean. That house."

"Did you need to point?" he inquired of Qoseph.

At this juncture, one hundred thousand steely knives descended upon the pair.

"No!" cried Qoseph, mortally wounded. "Mortal wounds! My only weakness!"

"Hah!" cried Qobert, defiant beside him. "Unlike my friend, whose passing I mourn, I am not weak to death! Hah!" he cried again. "I laugh at death!"

He looked down.

"Though it might be a bit uncomfortable to remove these fifty thousand knives that are pinning me to the wall," he admitted.

There was a house across the street.

"Just you wait," Qobert said, shaking his fist at the house. "Your time will come."