Chapter Eleven
Tuesday stumbled out of Esther’s bedroom at a quarter to six the next morning. She’d slept beside Ginny, who had moaned and shivered all night and darted her tongue into the air like an echidna searching for ants. Tuesday hadn’t seen Tom once since she’d spied him through the bedroom door last night but she had certainly heard him. Tuesday rubbed her eyes and moaned, remembering with despair what Tom had been up to. Tom had been making love to Swan, not Tuesday, and his noises had kept them all awake.
Tuesday stomped into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle. Well, bugger Tom! She didn’t care! If she saw Tom, she just wouldn’t talk to him, that’s all! Why should she? He’d led her on with no qualms at all and then shoved her aside! He wouldn’t get one word out of her! Tuesday sat down at the breakfast bar and crossed her arms across her chest and thought angrily about how much she didn’t care.
Tom rubbed his eyes and groaned. He’d had little sleep. He’d spent all night on the floor squashed between Margaret and Louise and being jumped on the stomach by Margaret’s toddlers. Tom threw off his sweaty t-shirt and detached a gurgling Fatima from his hair, depositing her in the wastepaper bin. He walked to the door. His head thumped. The last thing he remembered after midnight was standing by the barbecue, his desire for revenge being aroused by Louise who appeared to be flirting with him. That is, until her black eyes widened and her moist lips opened and she vomited down the front of his pants.
Tom shook his head with disgust. Not because Louise had vomited enough to fill three buckets or because her corn and carrot pieces still stuck to his thighs like leeches (even though Louise hadn’t eaten any corn or carrots for weeks, as is Murphy’s Law), but because he was ashamed. Would he have had sex with Iraq’s top porn star as a mere tool for revenge against Tuesday? Tom didn’t like to think what would have happened if Louise hadn’t brought up a week’s food down his trousers. He’d been drunk, mad, and horny – all the prerequisites for a vindictive one night stand. Tom rubbed his face and groaned. When had he become so damn juvenile?
Swan clutched a sheet over her naked body and stared wide-eyed up at the ceiling. Bill and Swan had decided to perform a communistic purification ritual in her bedroom last night. In other words, they’d decided to have sex. At least that’s what Swan thought it was.
Swan turned her head and stared at Bill’s contented face. His dribble slipped out of his mouth and pooled onto the pillow. His hair stood up at right angles. His eyelids blinked rapidly as he slept and his fingers twitched like the paws of a dog dreaming. Swan turned back to the ceiling and tried to remember what had actually taken place. It had certainly involved a great deal of grunting and heavy breathing but as Swan seemed to recall, this was because Bill had asked Swan to wash the bedroom windows. One moment she’d been spraying the glass with Windex, stripped down to her underwear and getting all wet, and the next Bill was asleep with his hand down his pants.
Swan sighed and rolled over. Maybe Bill just liked making love in a clean room but had fallen asleep from all the excitement. She smiled to herself. She couldn’t wait for him to wake up so they could both fuck like rabbits.
Tom walked into the kitchen but stopped when he saw Tuesday sitting at the breakfast bar staring into her glass of milk. She looked up and scowled and went back to staring at milk.
Tom ignored her and walked to the phone. He made a call to Mr G. explaining that they didn’t know who Anthea’s lover was yet but that Anthea had kidnapped Esther and was planning to blow up the city by placing bombs in all of Mr G.’s buildings.
Tuesday listened to Tom’s conversation. She also listened to Mr G. He was shouting so loud that Tom had to hold the phone away from his ear. Tom paled at the words ‘buried ten feet under’, ‘Spanish water torture’, and ‘death by Chihuahua’.
Tom agreed to meet Mr G. and his sons in an hour. He hung up the phone and glanced at his watch. It was 6.30 a.m. Less than five hours before the bombs were going off.
“Right.” Tom took in a tight breath and avoided Tuesday’s eyes. “I can handle this on my own.” He turned to leave.
“Hey! I’m coming too!” Tuesday said sharply.
“Why?” Snapped Tom, twirling around.
“Why not?” Tuesday stared at him bitterly.
“I suppose you want the money Mr G owes you, do you, Tuesday? What’s the matter, the money from Bill not going to be enough for you?”
Tuesday narrowed her eyes. “I want to help Esther.” She leapt off the breakfast stool and slammed her glass in the sink. “I’m going with you whether you like it or not.”
“Well, I don’t like it!”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Fine!” Shouted Tuesday. She stalked off to the bedroom to get dressed.
Tom stamped in the other direction and splashed water on his face from the dirty plugged up supply in the kitchen sink. He quickly dragged a tea towel over his face and ran to the door but Tuesday was already there, pulling on her Bludstone boots and tightening her face mask straps.
“Don’t know why you’re bothering.” Tom said, pushing past her.
“Just because you’re a good-for-nothing low-life bastard, doesn’t mean I can’t force myself to spend a few hours in your company to save a good friend,” Tuesday replied, overtaking him.
They ran for the road, jumping over the camel’s dead carcass, both of them determined to be the first to hail public transport. The street was deserted and thick with smust. Tendrils of soot swirled through the air and the temperature was akin to being smothered in a wool rug while sitting in a spa pool. Curtains were drawn against the heat and nothing moved. Tuesday caught a glimpse of a revolving carriage wheel in a cleansing burst of hot sea air and sped down the road to catch up but Tom quickly passed her, whistling at the carriage with his fingers in his lips.
The Chinese driver looked over his shoulder and stopped, hauling up his reins. He was naked and sweat dripped from his forehead, over his bony chest and disappeared between his thighs. He regarded them comfortably from his perch.
“Hee-haw!” Complained Hee-Haw, twisting his muzzle over his furry shoulder. He was attached to the carriage with a leather halter and a chocolate croissant dangled from a broom handle in front of him.
“Ah,” said Yi Ming at Tom and Tuesday’s upturned faces, “you ones who kill my camel.”
“We didn’t mean to…”
“No matter,” Yi Ming interrupted, “I have good donkey now.”
“We need a lift to -”
The Chinaman cut her words off with his hand. He shook his head and scratched his sticky scrotum. “You bad luck. Donkey die.” He snapped his reins and Hee-Haw took off with a jubilant trot.
“Wait!” Shouted Tom, running beside him. “It’s very important that we…”
“A thousand dollar!” Came the reply.
“But we don’t have a thousand dollars!” Yelled Tuesday, sprinting beside him.
“Then you go nowhere.”
“Uh huh.” Said Tom. It took him less than a minute to truss up Yi Ming’s bony body.
“Murder!” Yelled Yi Ming in her ears as Tuesday held down his slippery arms. “Murder!”
Using the donkey’s leather reins they wrapped him up like a turkey ready for the oven and sat him in the back seat. For the remainder of the journey into the city Yi Ming huddled over their shoulders, complaining and cursing, his little penis flopping up and down as the carriage moved ahead at full speed.
Tom and Tuesday sat as far away from each other as was physically possible. Tuesday clung to her seat and Tom held the broom handle over Hee- Haw’s nose but every now and then the jumping carriage shook her towards Tom and they collided together. They recoiled as if burnt by hot water. Tom jerked his mask over his face and turned his head away.
As they rounded the corner into New South Head Rd, thousands of people swept past them, hurrying dark figures, their face masks bobbing like neon buoys in the sea of pollution and their disembodied sandals slapping on the pavement six feet beneath. Along William Street, the arterial routes spewed out thousands of bodies towards the city. Smust covered everything from Armani suit shoulders to street signs. Dozens of business men were naked from the waist up save for their ties.
Neon signs fizzled and spluttered. Camels stubbornly lay down in the street and their weary customers climbed off and made their own way to town. Soldiers confiscated dehydrated horses with a wave of their machine guns and cyclists barrelled past them all.
Thousands of voices mingled and mumbled, carriage wheels clattered, horses whinnied, bike bells ting-tinged. It sounded like Cairo on market day. Peak hour started earlier now with the trend towards that of the Spanish, to start work before seven and take a three hour siesta in the heat of the day. Naturally this tradition had been altered to suit Australian culture, namely to return from the siesta a little bit drunk and mostly not to return at all.
Tom turned into Castlereagh Street and pulled the chocolate croissant high over Hee Haw’s head until the donkey stopped. Tom disembarked and Tuesday gave Hee-Haw the croissant before following in Tom’s hurried footsteps.
“Hey!” Said Yi Ming, his arms wrapped around his back and his knees flat to his ears. “HEY!”
Tom pushed his way into the cool interior of Mr G.’s display centre.
The shop was empty. The forehead had been disposed of and in her place was a desolate empty chair and a blank wall sprayed with bullet holes.
Tom and Tuesday took off their face masks and avoided looking at each other.
“Hullo?” Called Tuesday into the dark corridor in front of them. Tom took a tentative step into the dark abyss and Tuesday followed. They passed plates of broken concrete on the floor and a mound of lumpy dirt beside them. A whiff of something dreadful like rotten food simmered over the mound and a shovel leant against the wall. A wave of bush flies lifted off the mound like a cloud of dust and chased them as they passed. Tuesday held her hand over her mouth. “Awful.”
Tom didn’t say a thing in reply.
Tuesday poked her tongue at him behind his back. This was going all wrong. Tuesday was the one who was supposed to be angry and Tom was supposed to be grovelling in apologies and repentance. But he hadn’t even had the decency to tell Tuesday that he and Swan had slept together! In fact, if anything, he seemed to be angry with her. Tuesday shook her head. When the time was right, she was going to tell Tom just what she thought of him, that he was a…a…a sleazy two-timing bastard!
Ahead of them in the distance came the sound of a noisy machine making a clunka-clunka-clunka noise like sneakers turning over and over in a clothes dryer and shouting over it were the sounds of voices in hot disagreement.
Unbeknownst to Tom or Tuesday, the Weasel slipped out of the shadows behind them and followed, nimbly wielding his submachine gun between his dirt-covered hands.
The sinister noise ahead of them picked up speed and Tuesday swallowed. Around the corner the corridor opened up into a large room that had once been white but which was now brown with dirt and smudged thumbprints and dried blood. Mr G had squeezed himself into an Ikea chair and was leaning back against the wall. The legs of the chair quivered dangerously. He motioned to them with his giant scarred fingertips.
“Grunt.” He grunted, pointing to two empty chairs across the table.
Tuesday followed Tom, fidgeting and reluctant. The noisy machine was not so sinister after all, only a giant fan built into the wall that rotated like an aeroplane’s propeller to provide some pleasantly cool air. Mr G’s tendrils of hair rose into the air with each rotation.
Tom and Tuesday sat obediently and were immediately followed by Weasel and Ogre who squashed in beside them. Weasel stared at Tuesday’s wrist, his eyes travelling over the vein. He licked his lips. Tuesday had no choice but to snuggle closer to Tom. She put her hands in between her thighs. Tom sat forward uncomfortably beside her. Tuesday wished his skin didn’t smell so nice, that his forearms were not quite so sinewy, that his hair didn’t flop so endearingly over his blue eyes. She crossed her bare legs tightly and jiggled her Bludstone boots nervously in the air. She felt as though she were only just holding herself together. Her floral dress rose over her thighs and the whole table glanced down at her legs. Mr G craned his neck for a better look, his chair rising off the ground, the seat squelched tightly to his lardy buttocks. He nodded his approval.
“Ya eva need a job in a wanna my brothels, Tuesday, you aska me okay?”
Tuesday blushed and Tom looked away, his face reddening. Before Tuesday could complain that she wasn’t a sex object and that they had more important things to discuss, Mr G sat back in his chair and slammed both fists into the cheap Ikea table.
“WHERE IS SHE? WHERE IS MY TRAITOROUS ANTHEA?”
“She’s…” Tom began. He cleared his throat and looked bravely into Mr G’s dead, black eyes. “Before I tell you, you have to guarantee that Esther will be safe. You can’t just go in there and execute everybody. My sister’s life is at stake here.”
Mr G raised his lips in a snarl. For the first time, Tuesday noticed that his fingertips were resting on the trigger of a Glock. Mr G’s snarl threatened to turn into a roar and Ogre and Weasel ducked their heads hurriedly beneath the table. Tom swallowed but held Mr G’s angry stare.
The snarl softened and Mr G eyed Tom with a look of respect. He leant back. “You a say we need a plan?”
“That’s right. We need to work out how we’re going to approach them. It’s a very delicate situation. We should spend a bit of time working out our plan of attack.” Tom pulled out a lined piece of paper from his pant pocket. “I drew up a map of the building tunnels and possible escape routes.”
Mr G nodded slowly. “A plan – thatsa good idea.” He glanced down at his sons whose heads were under the table, their eyes riveted on Tuesday’s thighs. Mr G shifted back in his chair and with a great deal of effort bent down and stuck his head under the table with them. The table lifted off the floor over his head and moved around as he held a muttered conversation with Ogre and Weasel. Tuesday held the bottom of her dress down firmly over her knees but felt the men’s hot breath over her thighs. Someone’s dribble pooled over her knee cap and Tuesday whacked her knee up with force. There was the sound of a snap and a scream followed by soft whimpering.
Tom and Tuesday waited. Ogre sat up briefly to retrieve Tom’s map and a pen and then retreated back under the table. The men’s voices became heated and raised at one point and then returned to low muttering.
Tom glanced back at Tuesday. “Sounds like they’re coming up with something.” He drummed his fingers on the table top until Mr G told him that it was doing his head in.
Tuesday nodded. She decided to leave her anger aside for now. It was so exhausting pretending to hate Tom when she felt just the opposite. It was the hardest thing on earth to stop herself from liking him. She touched Tom’s arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Tom. We’ll get Esther home safely.”
Tom started back at the touch of her fingertips and Tuesday’s face flushed. She quickly withdrew her hand.
“No – I didn’t mean…” said Tom.
Tuesday looked away. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
The table jerked violently as the men struggled to extradite themselves. Tom and Tuesday helped lift the table off their heads. Mr G sat back, smoothed down his hair with his hands, and looked back at them triumphantly.
“We have aya plan!” He barked. “Weasel!”
Weasel gingerly touched the bridge of his nose, wiped away the blood from his nostrils, and held the piece of paper closely in front of his face. He began to read.
“Stand up Weasel! Didn’t da teachers teach youse anything at school?”
Weasel stood and cleared his throat. He held the piece of paper in front of his chest and looked around the room self-importantly.
“The plan is …shoot everybody!”
Mr G and Ogre clapped enthusiastically. “Excellent idea!” Shouted Mr G. He beamed. “I thought of it myself, ya know.” He confided to Tom.
Tom paled.
“What da ya think?” Mr G asked him. “We’d try not to shoot Esther, of course.”
Tom took a deep breath. “Did you come up with any other plans in the twenty-five minutes you were under the table?”
“Oh, sure!”
“Garrotte them with red hot wire,” said Ogre, thoughtfully.
“Remove their entrails by hand,” offered Weasel, enthusiastically.
“Drown them in a bucket of cat’s piss.”
“Hang them by lavender scented ribbons.”
“Torture them with dripping candle wax.”
“Behead them with a blunt machete.”
“Electrocute them by malfunctioning toaster.”
“Tickle them to death with really scratchy feathers.”
“Remove their entrails by hand,” Weasel repeated firmly. He looked somewhat hopefully at Mr G.
Mr G spread his hands. “But sometimes da simple ideas are the best.” He caressed his Glock and casually turned it towards Tom so that the barrel faced him side-on. “Now,” he said quietly, his hair lifting off his forehead much like a toupee being caught by the air flow of a rotating fan, “where…is…Anthea?”
Things seemed to happen quickly after that. One minute Tom and Tuesday were being propelled into Mr G’s private carriage by guns at the small of their backs and the next minute Ogre was unlocking the giant padlock that secured the gate of the unfinished building in Castlereagh Street.
Mr G’s Armani shirt was soaked with sweat. Great ovals of perspiration hung beneath his armpits and his face and neck dripped. Even his shoes squelched.
Tuesday’s dress clung to her and Tom had stripped off his t-shirt and rolled up his trousers. Ogre and Weasel on the other hand, looked immaculate. It was what Mr G demanded of them and they were happy to be terrified into complying.
Weasel pushed open the gate and held it open for Mr G as if he were royalty. Tuesday almost expected Weasel to throw down his jacket over the dusty shale so Mr G would not dirty his shoes. Mr G looked as though he expected this as well and for a brief minute Weasel was caught in a philosophical quandary of whether to dirty his jacket or remain immaculate. He was saved from thinking any further when Mr G growled, shoved him aside, and waddled onto the building site.
As Tom and Tuesday had suspected, the site was not much more than a giant hole with a few basement concrete floors completed. They peered over the edge of the gaping wound in the earth.
“Welcome to the world’s biggest supermarket of genetically modified food,” said Mr G proudly. “My baby.” His face darkened. “And that bitch wants to blow it up!” He turned around to them. “Whatever happens down there, you leave Anthea to me.” He smacked his gun into the palm of his hand.
Tuesday swallowed, almost afraid to speak. “How do we get Esther out without harm? All those bombs…” Her voice sounded like a mouse’s squeak amongst the cavernous walls of limestone.
Mr G blinked. “Esther? Oh. Her.” He shrugged. “Whatever. Sometimes sacrifices have to be made. For the good of my build…mankind.”
Tom and Tuesday glanced at each other. This wasn’t going well. Whatever went down in the basement, they would have to rely on each other.
Ogre, Weasel, and Mr G all reloaded their guns at the same time.
“Follow me,” Mr G barked. He strode down the zig-zagging dirt slope which surrounded the half-filled hole.
“We’ve got to do something,” whispered Tom to Tuesday.
“Like what?” She asked.
“You could distract him. Take off your clothes.”
“What?”
Mr G halted and turned around. Ogre and Weasel banged into the front of him. “Is there somethink you’d like to share with da rest us, Tuesday?” He asked, removing his two sons from his armpits.
“Um – no.”
“Come now, if dere’s something you need to whisper behind our backs…” he scanned the two of them as if they were a roomful of school kids and he waved his Glock in the air, “be so kind as ta share it with da rest of us, will you?”
Tuesday blinked. “Um, no Sir. It was nothing, Sir. Tom and I were just admiring your…your…”
“Seal-skin shoes,” finished Tom.
Mr G snorted and glanced at Weasel and Ogre. “Keep a close eye on dem,” he barked.
They continued down the trail, dust rising in plumes with every step.
“I think I should go in first Mr G.” Tom called up the front. “You know, to distract them.”
“Shut up, boy,” Mr G roared back. “Da only thing that’ll distract dem is the bullets whizzing past their heads.”
“Did Mr G use to be a schoolteacher in Italy?” Tuesday asked Weasel.
Weasel snickered. “When he was young.”
“What happened?”
Weasel shrugged. “All I know,” he said in an ominous tone, “is that they’re not there any more.”
“The students?”
“The village.”
“Oh.”
“Good work,” whispered Tom into her ear. “Engaging with the enemy and all that. Establishing a bond.” Ogre poked him in the stomach with his Glock.
“Shut up.”
Tom paled. He had had a notion that he would somehow act and look like a hero. He would rescue Esther with a flourish and Tuesday would be so impressed she’d forget all about Bill. In his mind’s eye it was he who rescued Esther on his own and everyone else, Tuesday included, were vague shadowy figures on the periphery of things. But this was not proving the case. Mr G’s guns had effectively emasculated him and he could not see how he could get Esther out alive let alone save face in front of Tuesday. Whatever happened now was out of his control.
Tom glared at Ogre and stomped onwards.
Tuesday tried to catch Weasel’s eye. Perhaps Tom was right. Perhaps there was value in making friends with someone who stared at your veins. Perhaps she should take off her clothes. Perhaps they should both rush Mr G and try to overpower him, despite the fact he was as big as a train and could paralyse them by breathing on them.
Weasel didn’t look back at her. He stared down at her wrists.
Mr G’s heavy footsteps turned into tiptoes as they came to a fork in the dirt trail. In front of them was what appeared to be the door to the last basement level with a green exit sign above. A small concrete roof provided some welcome shade and tubular steel scaffolding braced the dirt walls. To the right, the open trail continued, circling the site, and disappearing into its depths.
Mr G jerked his head at the trail and Ogre slipped down it silently. In no time at all Tuesday could see his shadow on the other side of the building site moving stealthily downwards amongst the steel studs.
“Right,” whispered Mr G. “Do ya remember the plan?”
Weasel nodded.
“What is it then?”
Weasel bit his lip. “Could you just remind me one more time?”
“Shoot everybody!” Mr G hissed. “What are you – an idiot?”
Weasel nodded.
“Now, when I say shoot, everybody shoot, okay?”
“But we don’t have any guns,” whispered Tuesday.
“Oh, you. I forgot you were still here. I spose you’ll have to duck then won’t you.”
“What about Esther?” Asked Tom, one last time.
“Esther who?” Said Mr G. He turned and put his large grubby paw around the door handle. “One…”
Weasel swept his greasy hair out of his eyes, bent his bony knees, and held his gun straight out in front of him.
“Two…”
Tuesday caught Tom’s eye and nodded down at the open construction site below them. Tip-toeing rapidly away in a long line behind each other were Anthea’s men. Tuesday looked up. For God’s sake, they’d been on camera the whole time. A mini surveillance camera hidden behind the exit sign swivelled over her face.
“Three!” Mr G roared. He turned the door handle but the door wouldn’t give. He rattled it again. It was locked. “Bugger!” He took a small step backwards and threw his weight against it once. The door split in two as if it had been hit by a stampeding elephant and it swung inwards on its hinges.
Mr G and Weasel lumbered inside, yelling, wildly peeling off rounds from their Glocks. Tom and Tuesday stood outside the door and looked at each other. The men’s voices disappeared into the depths and then Tom and Tuesday watched as Mr G and Weasel crossed the open space below, bellowing, bullets ricocheting off the walls. They disappeared, screaming, into darkness on the opposite side of the site.
Tom and Tuesday waited.
A moment later Mr G and Weasel returned, screaming, their guns silent, running back as fast as they could. Anthea’s men followed at an even faster pace behind them, screaming, as punctured air exploded over their heads, and Ogre followed them, screaming, spitting bullets in front of him with the same kind of accuracy his wee had hitting the toilet bowl.
Tuesday watched as Mr G and Weasel dived into the shadow of a recess in the sandstone pit. Mr G waited for Anthea’s hysterical men to pass them by unnoticed, then as Ogre rounded the corner, Mr G caught him and swung him by the back of the neck.
“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” He shook him. “YOU COULDA KILLED ME!”
“I…” But that was the only letter of the alphabet Ogre had time to squeeze out before Mr G pinched his son’s carotid artery and Ogre’s body slumped forward unconscious. Mr G dropped him to the floor and extracted the Uzi from Ogre’s fingertips. “AMATEUR!” Mr G spat. He stalked into the building after Anthea’s men.
Three stories above him, Tom stuck his head through the crumpled doorway beneath the eye of the swivelling camera. Inside was a flight of concrete stairs, silent but for the wailing of Anthea’s men far below.
Tom and Tuesday crept into the darkness and down the stairs.
They paused mid-step on a dusty landing when Anthea’s men burst through the door below them. Behind the men came the huffing and puffing of Mr G and the sound of his sweat plopping onto the floor. A bullet whizzed past Tuesday’s ear and thunked dully into the concrete wall beside her as Kevin’s face jiggled up the stairs in a panic followed by the other men.
“That’s not sweat plopping, that’s bodies!” Tom yelped as Anthea’s men pushed them out of the way.
“I’m a coming after you like dominos!” Shouted Mr G. “Whad am I doing?” He called back to Weasel.
“You’re a coming after them like dominos!” Weasel puffed.
“Thatsa right. I’m a coming after you like dominos!”
“And then I’ll rip out your entrails with my teeth!” Shrieked Weasel, his vampire incisor protruding from his mouth and dripping with salivary blood. A bullet zinged from the gun in his hairy hands and plunged into the concrete between Tuesday’s legs.
Tuesday screamed and Tom pulled her through the nearest doorway and slammed the heavy door behind them. They huddled together against the cool wall and listened as Mr G and Weasel chooed past them like steam trains, expelling bullets as fast as guinea pigs on the Atkins diet.
Eventually the sound of screams faded and the pounding footsteps disappeared into the vastness of space above them. Tuesday looked behind her. The room they were in was icy cold and water dripped down the walls from the roof above. Plumbing pipes poked out of broken wall tiles beside them and forlorn S traps hung behind them waiting for toilets that might never arrive. It looked like the beginnings of a urinal. Tuesday shivered.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said.
“We can’t.” Tom pressed his forehead against the wall. “There’s no door handle.”
“What?” Tuesday groped along the heavy door with him. There were hinges. Nothing else. The door was wedged firmly in the wall and as unmoving from the hard right as Tony Abbott.
“Um…I think there was a bit of dead wood propping the door open now that I think about it.” Said Tom. “I might have kicked it away.”
Tuesday groaned.
“Hey, no one’s perfect!” Yelled Tom. “It was either this or be Weasel’s next meal!”
“Don’t yell at me! I’m simply coming to terms with the fact that I’m trapped in a bloody urinal where a bomb will blow us up to smithereens!” Shouted Tuesday back.
“Oh, so this is what you’re like when you’re angry!” Snorted Tom, folding his arms. “Well!”
“You’re the one that’s doing all the yelling!” Yelled Tuesday.
Tom narrowed his eyes.
Tuesday growl