His friend yelled ‘Action!’, and he took a breath and then sprinted along the high wall and dove off the end toward the lower one, planting his face beautifully on the corner, letting his body slam into the side at a horrible angle, leaving him to slowly peel off and fall a further eighteen feet, giving him an excellent chance of being cast as ‘Mangled man in abandoned industrial estate’ in the upcoming movie which, unbeknownst to him, had in fact been cancelled.
It wasn’t the yelling. It wasn’t the stomping around. It wasn’t the parties that went on all night. It wasn’t even the way they seemed to watch old episodes of Kilroy at maximum volume at 5am while chanting sectarian football songs. It was the fact that, not once but many times, she heard spooge hitting the wall so hard you’d think it’d been fired out of a blunderbuss.
He had always been described as someone who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, but he had proved them wrong and then some, both repeatedly, loudly yelling ‘boo’ at it and slashing on its feathers before graciously releasing it from its chains and sprinting off before it could get him.
“You dyke!” she yelled, but she knew she wanted to lick that sloppy minge.