Suddenly Jacques sprang up and danced a little jig. “I’m getting married in the morning! Ding, dong, the bells are gonna chime!” he sang breezily. But soon he sat down, his dejection impossible to ignore, and the mood became sombre again, all present grimly certain that actually they were going to be tortured to death and that the only sound the bells would make would be a slow, funereal toll.
He did a backflip, but alas, he’d chosen the worst place to do so, and the thousands of yards he fell gave him time to contemplate his folly before splattering beautifully on the excrement-smeared cobblestones.
The way the heat from the nuclear explosion flash-fried his flesh before the blastwave tore it all off and blew it away was excruciating and horrifying but also, in a way, quite funny, especially as he’d boasted that he would ‘bang out’ any nuke that came anywhere near him.
Just as she reached terminal velocity, her coccyx connected with the roof of the brutalist abomination, all the vertebrae shattering inside her. Suspended by her enormous weight on the building’s edge for a moment, she then slumped slowly over and tumbled flabbily down to splatter on the unyielding flagstones below.
What kind of man gets bum implants? Well, apparently the same kind who gets his eyes widened, his jawline straightened and his ribcage shortened to allow self-fellation. And, if the strictly confidential yet poorly-guarded records were to be believed, which the court ruled that they were, the same kind of man also saw fit to have his balls enlarged, which wasn’t unheard of but usually didn’t entail the use, and indeed the tragic and eventually fatal overuse, of growth hormones and, verily, something listed only by its brand name (Mr Magoo’s Magic Nutbulge).
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.
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.
The wyvern bore down on him. He knew that now was the time to strike, just as she dove in for the kill. He thrust his sword up and between two great scales on her chest, or rather tried to and failed dismally, his rubbish sword bending and breaking, the beast barely slowed by his puny efforts, her great jaws clamping through his throat easily and allowing her young, his erstwhile prey, to swarm in and tear him into digestible shreds.
The spear pierced his throat, killing him in seconds and releasing his bowel from its duties, a column of shit quietly slipping free into his brand new lavender pantaloons.
Dave leaned on the fence and sighed. She was going on about her husband’s bad back again, as though Dave worked for the DSS. She didn’t realise that he was hardly going to grass up the scrounging bastard. He might need that excuse himself one day. But her life of lies had made her paranoid, and she went on and on. He found his mind wandering, then his eyes drooping, and though ostensibly awake he even began to snore, and then fell back onto the trampoline which, though old and grimy, was in fabulous working order, and he bounced off it, somersaulting wearily across the garden and into the pond, sinking unconsciously beneath the surface scum into the toxic waste below, his skin quickly dissolving and exposing his muscles, bones and everything else to a slightly slower but equally total annihilation as she tutted and waddled off to bore someone else.