The huge hammer head smashed into his shiny bonce, blowing his skull apart and leaving his near-liquidated brain to slop onto the floor where it was booted about and trodden on as civilisation collapsed all around.
His cock drooped pathetically, his miserable, oestrogen-riddled barrel of a body unable to sustain the insistent boner he needed to satisfy his lubricious companion who now gave up and flounced out of his mildewy basement in contempt and disappointment, closing off his only avenue for some measure of birthday action and leaving him alone to onanise lethargically and unsuccessfully as tears streamed down his flabby, acne-strewn cheeks.
Her face had become little more than a landing strip for spooge, and she only had herself to blame.
He turned away from the lovely pink-red dahlias, put down his secateurs, picked up his old copy of Greyfriars Bobby and sat back in his deck chair, taking a sip of Tizer and settling in for a good read, though he knew in this heat that it might turn into a nap. As he began the fourth page, a titanium fist suddenly smashed into his face with monstrous force. He thought he felt his skull fracture and sag inwards, but he had no time to be sure as the fist smashed in again and again and kept on coming with robotic relentlessness, quickly pounding its way through the entire front of his skull and into his brain, through that too and all the way out of the back of his head.
His spunk looked great on her big, shiny new knockers, or at least it had when it had landed there. Not so much now, four and twenty years later, the crispy residue lost among the sagging folds of supercentenarian flesh.