Slam the door and look for something to bar it with
From Create Your Own Story
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You quickly bang the door shut and engage the rusted latch as the thugs advance. You look around frantically for something to bar the door with - you don't see anything in the hall that looks useful, and your heaviest possessions are firmly fixed to your chest. You're really starting to panic, when suddenly you hear a very loud, wet fart behind you. It came from your tit-biting neighbour, who's still passed out on the floor, snoring gently. You leap into action and desperately try to roll him towards the door, but he's far too fat and won't budge. You hear the goons shake the door and know it won't withstand more than a couple of their blows. Tears sting your eyes as you ineffectually strain against his round belly with all your might. This is it: you're going to end up beaten to a pulp, your life over before it begins. You picture the inscription on your tombstone: Laura Alessandra Grazia de Angelis, 1380-1400, sorely missed by bedbugs and fleas. | You quickly bang the door shut and engage the rusted latch as the thugs advance. You look around frantically for something to bar the door with - you don't see anything in the hall that looks useful, and your heaviest possessions are firmly fixed to your chest. You're really starting to panic, when suddenly you hear a very loud, wet fart behind you. It came from your tit-biting neighbour, who's still passed out on the floor, snoring gently. You leap into action and desperately try to roll him towards the door, but he's far too fat and won't budge. You hear the goons shake the door and know it won't withstand more than a couple of their blows. Tears sting your eyes as you ineffectually strain against his round belly with all your might. This is it: you're going to end up beaten to a pulp, your life over before it begins. You picture the inscription on your tombstone: Laura Alessandra Grazia de Angelis, 1380-1400, sorely missed by bedbugs and fleas. | ||
| - | While you pity yourself, your fat neighbour's wife appears at your side, her sleeves rolled up. She mutters something derisive and gives her prone husband a kick in his expansive backside. You watch slack-jawed in wonder as she puffs her cheeks out and, with one great heave, shoves her husband against the front door with an almighty crash. | + | While you pity yourself, your fat neighbour's wife appears at your side, her sleeves rolled up, and motions for you to stand back. She mutters something derisive and gives her prone husband a kick in his expansive backside. You watch slack-jawed in wonder as she puffs her cheeks out and, with one great heave, shoves her husband against the front door with an almighty crash. |
She nods at you and walks straight back to the kitchen, throwing a little girl who was about to thrust a hand up your skirt over her shoulder as she goes and snatching her rolling pin from the hands of a little boy. | She nods at you and walks straight back to the kitchen, throwing a little girl who was about to thrust a hand up your skirt over her shoulder as she goes and snatching her rolling pin from the hands of a little boy. | ||
Revision as of 06:28, 28 December 2015
You quickly bang the door shut and engage the rusted latch as the thugs advance. You look around frantically for something to bar the door with - you don't see anything in the hall that looks useful, and your heaviest possessions are firmly fixed to your chest. You're really starting to panic, when suddenly you hear a very loud, wet fart behind you. It came from your tit-biting neighbour, who's still passed out on the floor, snoring gently. You leap into action and desperately try to roll him towards the door, but he's far too fat and won't budge. You hear the goons shake the door and know it won't withstand more than a couple of their blows. Tears sting your eyes as you ineffectually strain against his round belly with all your might. This is it: you're going to end up beaten to a pulp, your life over before it begins. You picture the inscription on your tombstone: Laura Alessandra Grazia de Angelis, 1380-1400, sorely missed by bedbugs and fleas.
While you pity yourself, your fat neighbour's wife appears at your side, her sleeves rolled up, and motions for you to stand back. She mutters something derisive and gives her prone husband a kick in his expansive backside. You watch slack-jawed in wonder as she puffs her cheeks out and, with one great heave, shoves her husband against the front door with an almighty crash.
She nods at you and walks straight back to the kitchen, throwing a little girl who was about to thrust a hand up your skirt over her shoulder as she goes and snatching her rolling pin from the hands of a little boy.
You hear sounds of confusion and frustration on the other side of the door - you've earned a brief reprieve. You also realize that you could never afford a tombstone. You:
