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.
He leapt off the top turnbuckle and elbow-dropped the pavement, crunching into it beautifully, utterly failing to break it and instead devastating his own arm and, in truth, his life prospects. And for what? Nothing. Nothing at all, he realised as he lay there whimpering in total solitude, unconsoled even by birdsong.
She had passed all four of her GCSEs, but she had failed to achieve even an F at not devastating her knickers with colossal amounts of turdal matter.
So intense was her hatred for him that she was prepared to sacrifice her own life, sprinting headlong and rugby tackling him, his drink and another unfortunate lady over the edge and down for a good eight seconds before they both splattered satisfyingly on the concrete while the other lady devastated a Lamborghini and the drink smashed all over a Reliant Robin.
She might have worked in a pet shop for the last eight years, but that didn’t mean she didn’t enjoy the feeling of being devastatingly skullfucked.