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A Worse Idea 138

The Angels of Heck’s lead guitarist — a man who only moments ago had been whacking Anne with a guitar — needed to come to a decision.

Was this the appropriate time to suggest an orgy? He came to the wrong conclusion.

“Hey,” he said, wiping some of Jizz Man’s jizz off his face. “I don’t know if this is the right time for this, but we’ve already got jizz all over us, so–”

“Ohgod,” Anne said, lying under the guitarist. “Whyyyyyy.”

The guitarist continued, undismayed. “You know, I have some pretty tasty jizz. Allegedly. As far as I’m aware. Haven’t tasted my own jizz, of course. That’d be weird. Haha. Ha.”

“No,” Sharise said, also lying on the floor.

“No?” the guitarist asked.

“No,” Sharise said. “Just leave.”

“Yeah, we can’t fight like this,” the drummer said, covered in jizz.

“I’m out of grenades,” the grenade guy said.

The Angels of Heck all nodded at each other. No one specifically came out and said, ‘Let’s go,’ but they all knew that was the direction they were going in.

And so — slowly, awkwardly — they shuffled out of Prometheus’s garage.

Anne and Sharise lay on the floor. After a long silence, Sharise said, “I hate you.”

“I hate everything,” Anne replied.

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