So, stranded in the middle of the expansive bridge that spanned 3 miles on either side of them; and, being advanced upon by the gregarious, though I must say, gregarious of the type referent to the guard who gives the deathrow inmate a cigarrette and proceeds to talk melancholy about "women who got away" before accompanying him to the giblet on the morrow, being advanced upon by these gregarious collections of fiendish army brigades, our poor and webbed characters find their chilling, modern mortality as they face death.

Richardson grabbs at McCrall's pants, attempting very gropingly to unravel them from their sturdy refuge of McCrall's cock.

McCrall, being thus uncladded, waits until the trousers are properly descended before jaunting over to Peggy, honing his fingertips on the jutting, chestal area.

Peggy artfully dodges the lustful enrapturement, and sets on rubbing her fan-fanny over Gerard's monstrous pelvisly located jelly factory.

Gerard, aloof and asexual, trots afar, away from the group, and into the embraceful spears of the approaching army, who before long subsume the bridge under the bloodlettered death of our remaining characters.


If this story were written 50 years ago, Peggy would have altruistically accepted the burden of providing the other, male characters with the necessary sex that precedes an inevitable death. Instead, modern diverse sexuality has made dry-welled, sex-deprived fools of us all.