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.
He was absolutely tearing up the place with his dance moves. Oh, man – these squares had never seen moves like this. They couldn’t keep up. They’d cleared the dancefloor for him. He had all the space he wanted. He was strutting like a peacock. He was grooving like some kind of groovy dance god. He w- FLURP! Oh, no. There was no dancefloor. There was only his bedroom, if you could call a gap between two big bins with a cardboard roof a bedroom. He wasn’t strutting now. In fact, his sole concern now was to get up without smearing the turd into his clothes and sleeping bag worse than it already was.