It was generally unproblematic to break wind in the jacuzzi, but it was much, much less acceptable to follow through, as the signs posted all over the health club had made abundantly clear, entirely in vain.
“Ohhhh, YES!” he cried as he swung the big mallet underarm to crunch beautifully into the chin of his foe, knocking him out cold, whipping his neck back horribly and leaving him to tumble backward out of the crow’s nest, over the side of the listing ship and into the jagged beak of the leviathan.
“What?” she spluttered indignantly. “I risked my life saving yours! I should get a medal!”
“I’ll give you a medal,” he said with a snarl. “Kneel down.”
She knelt expectantly. Something seemed wrong, but she assumed that this must be part of the medal presentation. Damn it! If she’d known, she would’ve got her family to come and watch. She would’ve dressed in her best, got professional makeup, arranged for a photogr- SPLAT! He’d launched the medal onto her face with his big wanger and was now strutting away. She was amazed that the ceremony was over so quickly, but also very proud. Only after he had sped off in his Proton Saga did it dawn on her that his bestowal had not in fact been a medal as such but rather a stringy cord of pubic mucus.
“Defrost it before you put it in the oven!” she bellowed as she was hurled into the wood-chipper.
She insisted that if they just waited for the lift they would get to the bottom sooner, but he already had a foot on the escalator. She let him go and he looked back up to see her giggling as she ran and got into the glass-fronted capsule, pressed the button frantically to close the doors and held her bag and grinned at him as she descended smoothly to the middle floor, reaching it just before he did and only stopping for a moment to let another woman in before resuming her descent. Complacent as always, he casually strolled round and got onto the second escalator. She grinned wider and began to give mocking gestures, knowing that he would still be ten feet from the ground when she touched down, but her wanker sign stopped and her face turned to sickened horror as he realised too, flung himself off the moving metal staircase, plunged through the few inches of water by the fountain and crunched his head horribly into the coin-strewn tiles, blood and, it appeared, deeply golden urine surrounding him as he expired to the sound of a pre-recorded Tannoy announcement.
She had done the work, and now she was reaping the enormous, bulbous rewards, a huge truncheon pummelling her grateful quinge and soon unloading a hot volley of sperm-rich cream for her to cogitate upon as her benefactor buttoned up and strutted off to finish his game of Atmosfear.
Chris had been asked whether he expected shrinkage to be higher among the call centre staff in Q3, and of course the answer was yes, but Neil from head office wanted to hear detail, whereas Chris just wanted to enjoy his glass of wine and look down over the yard as the windows reflected the gleaming afternoon sun. It was rare for this little secluded urban spot to look so pretty. But Neil was droning on insistently. The fact that they’d all been allowed to finish at 3 today seemed to be of no value to him. If anything it was an annoyance. He had to talk shop. He had no social skills and no life outside work. None.
Chris found himself leaning drowsily on the railing across the open French doors, unable and, unusually for him, unwilling to conceal his weariness at his senior manager’s crushingly boring attempts at conversation. Even this obvious fuck-off made no difference at all, and his sleepy disinterest in Neil’s desire to ‘really drive down costs across the operation’ only deepened, until suddenly Chris found himself past the point of no return, panicking and trying to grab one of the railings as he tumbled fully over, but to no avail, and now he plunged right into the vat of toxic waste, his skin beginning to crisp and sizzle immediately, some of it turning into a sort of fleshy steam while the rest began to slough off his body, leaving the muscles to rapidly dissolve under the chemical onslaught, his eyes lasting only a few seconds and his throat being annihilated too as he tried in vain to utter a final, gurgling scream as Neil frowned at his lack of professionalism.
She spammed him and, to her delight, his brow exploded in a shower of pus, blood and Botox, her hand sticking to the wet, ragged mess for a moment before she pulled it away and made space for the robotic fist to punch straight through his face and out of the back of his head in one devastating thrust.
She did a lovely spinning roundhouse kick to his face, immediately bursting open his disgustingly Botoxed lips and allowing yellowy-red crap to run free and dribble miserably onto the fake white tiger rug they had only just finished bonking on.
The hand cupping his sack was wrinkled with age, but still it gave him that spunking feeling and oh, God, no, he’d just seen her face for the first time and now he was flaccid, flaccider even than her sagging cheeks, and now he imagined her collapsed old titrack, and then the rest, and he shuddered with horror. No way was he going to cream one off now. The load had run for cover and wouldn’t be coming out until this lubricious crone had been ejected (slowly, because of her knees) from not only his office but the whole area around the Pentagon.