Surely there was only a certain amount of other people’s earwax-infused pus a man could reasonably be expected to quaff, but still, that amount was in the centigallons and he was still at the stage of vomiting violently after each sip from the first beaker (with faded Power Rangers print). He was determined to get through it, though. What doesn’t kill me makes m-HUARRRGGGHHHH!
There was a dark brown stain on the back of his jodhpurs, and they all knew it was shit.
He threw himself from the roof, picking a fight with the corner of the lower building and losing immediately, his headbutt not devastating the brickwork as he had hoped but in fact breaking his own skull open, though the snapping of his neck meant that he only had a fraction of a second to contemplate it, and no consciousness left by the time he hit the floor in a contorted mess and expired with his arse above his open gob and, you know it, a turd emitting languidly from one into the other.
He was in Liverpool! Oh, God, no. No!
Her claws scratched across and through his face, rending his diseased, decaying flesh and tearing off a strip which she threw over her shoulder for her raven familiar to feast upon before fouling itself as it died.
Yes, he was wearing couture vicuña briefs. No, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be spunking into them. It didn’t even mean that he hadn’t already (he had).
The follow-through filled his Y-fronts immediately and carried on going, his clown trousers soon brimming too and the pressure forcing the hot cack up through the sealed plastic sheeting into his heavy plate armour and finding its deserved release through the gaps.
She had bollocks bouncing off her chin, and all was right with the world.