Hunting Season
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"Theshe don't look like ducks to me. That'sh all I'm shaying. I'm not shaying it'sh your fault or anything, but yeah. Theshe totally don't look like the ducksh I shpeschifically ordered to be put in the pond I shpeschifically ordered to be made sho I can go duck hunting, ish all I'm shaying."
Nathan, Skwisgaar, and Toki watched curiously and with not a little amusement as Murderface, on his dehtphone, went out of his way to make their manager on the other end of it more and more annoyed. Listening to Ofdensen get progressively more irritated until finally his rising voice could be heard through the phone's small speaker was almost as much fun as blasting ducks on their new duck hunting pond would surely be.
"Okay. Okay, yeah, shure. I guessh we can jusht shettle for blowing up theshe birdsh inshtead until you fix thish mishtake." Ignoring whatever snappy comeback Charles surely had ready, Murderface smugly dropped the phone and without preamble raised his shotgun.
Toki shrieked and covered his eyes as the bassist fired off a round at the elegant swans peacefully gliding across the water—and thusly at Pickles, who was drunkenly and happily preoccupied trying to feed the big white birds bits of his sandwich crust.
Two minutes later...
Charles had arrived to awkwardly comfort the younger guitarist. "There, there, Toki. You can stop crying now. It will be alright. We'll get all this cleaned up, so just don't look at it if it makes you feel too uncomfort—" Loud yelling from the lawn was proving distracting.
"Mother-douchebag, ya killed my swahns!!"
Nathan warily eyed the scene as the infuriated and significantly smaller drummer perched on the fallen bassist's chest and proceeded to give Murderface the bitch-slapping of his life. "I guess. I guess I, uh... didn't realize Pickles liked swans so much."
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