“ALRIGHT. WHO’S THE ASSHOLE WHO FUCKING GAVE ME A FUCKING BUTTERFLY?!” I asked the guys nicely.
Blank stares answered me. And not a few thumbs up some asses. In some cases two.
“A butterfly, Pau?” asked Baddie.
“Yes, a butter–fucking–fly. Did I stutter?” The guys shifted uncomfortably, each of them waiting for somebody else to answer.
“Well no Pau,” Coco interjected. “If you stuttered, we would have heard you say ‘Butt—butt-butt-butt-butterfly!’ AMIRITE?!” The severity of my glare told me that he was indeed, “not rite.”
“I’M GOING TO START COUNTING—” I went on.
“And we’re going to start dancing.” continued Bim. Or rather, that’s what he tried to say before I punched him in the neck. In reality, what he said was “And we’re going to start—OW OW OW JESUS PEDRO CHRIST!”
“Now then. I’m going to ask again. Nicely this time. Which one of you sensible idiots gave me this fucking butterfly?” I said, with much restraint.
Continue reading ‘The Case Of The Butterfly Stain: A TMB Mystery’
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