That's, yes sire, That's a LAAAAZZY manouver.

After boarding a swift and degrading engine to Molten Ass Central, Three lonely boys, rolled up, in the style of a body in a carpet, in what can ONLY be described as a smog of decay. Thick and tangible as olde style pea soup grunters, that used to roam around old London town, accept this time, it's not pollution plaguing the streets, its the boy's armpits. People, scream and flee in horror, at the distasteful trio, encloaked in a thick gelotine of sweat. Although, they haven't participated any physical activity may I add, oh, oh no, they've been sitting static, on a train. Breathing as heavily as marathon runners, but no, they haven't done any exercise for as long as anyone can remember. They drop they're trousers and marched like some kind of perverted three man army, in no haste, may I add, back to the hovelous slum that pock marked Falmouth everday it bin built. The boy's glanced at a can of alcohol, instantly rendered unconsious, writhing, trouserless in the street like the pig's they are.