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Then my arms as I pushed myself up and scuttled back until I hit the edge of my couch, and then clambered right up on it even as those little hands kept poking away at me, until a weight settled into my lap.

I sat like that for hours, the thing in my lap even as dozens of little hands continued to poke at me, and me frankly too terrified to move. Occasionally tugging at my hair, or prodding out my mouth. It was only as the sun rose that it stopped, and whatever it, or maybe they, were just sort of vanished.

I say 'sort of' because even after my eyes had adjusted to the darkness I couldn't see anything. At all. Sometimes when I turned my head or looked away, from the corner of my eye I could see like a staticy glitch in the darkness, almost.

But when ever I looked back down to my lap there was nothing there, even though I could feel it shifting in my lap. So yeah, that happened the other night, and I'm staying at my brother's place now. I still have a lot of things left at my place, but I'm really not feeling like I need them. Not enough to warrant me going back to my apartment at any rate, because while whatever it was didn't hurt me, it still scared the hell out of me.

And I've got no clue what it could possible want. A close up of the famous Belgian statue of the little urinating boy perhaps with a more modern and useful interpretation. First mentioned in around around the recast in bronze in it has been a fixture of the city and indeed other cities around the world. Many legends about what it means include leatherworkers letting kids urinate on the leather to soften it. A little boy was caught by a witch peeing on her door and she cursed him to pee forever.

It has been stolen many times by everyone from French soldiers to university students. He has been given companions in recent years in the form of Jeanneke Pis, a peeing girl and Het Zinneke, a peeing dog. One guy on the left. Two on the right; one seated and one standing. A takeout box on the table. Not one of the stereotypical white ones, one of the brown cardboard ones like a squashed cube. A paper cup with a plastic lid and straw.

I started with the guy on the right. I stuck out my elbow ninety degrees and he ate it. His teeth broke and his head snapped back and carried him backwards into the wall, where I came in with a clumsy left, hauled back through the jelly of adrenaline and swung my arm forward and over, which I buried in his nose.

I put my right foot into the wall to interrupt my momentum, then pushed off with my leg and let myself fall backwards, head first. That was the important part. But hitting someone in the forehead with the back of your skull will do more than just tickle.

So I did more than just tickle the one guy on the left of the room. I broke his nose with the back of my head and fell on top of him. The last conscious one of the bunch was already out of his seat at this point, and the small table rocked as his knee jostled it, and he had a gun out and was bringing it up to bear. The gun roared and its massive slide flew backwards, rammed home, shot forward again and locked into place. The bullet punched the air and spat about two feet to my left, which let me grab the gun barrel with my left hand and nestle my right hand into the crook of his arm.

I pulled back my right and drove my elbow into his forehead and he yelped in astonishment. I seized the opportunity and the gun and took the hand cannon and fired it an inch away from his left ear and he writhed and belted a high C as his eardrum exploded until I reversed my grip on the handheld surface-to-air missile and drove it across his jaw.

He sagged downwards with some finality and I took a breath. Picked up the paper cup on the table and took a swig.

I knocked on the next door and immediately stepped out of the way. All of that ruckus could have woken the dead, so it was a guarantee that the goons next door had heard it. The door was immediately and loudly destroyed, first peppered with holes and finally destroyed, and I sat calmly and watched Pepsi pool around the unconscious small-penised-overcompensator. The racket sounded like a Mormon exorcism.

When the barrage stopped I stood up, straightened my coat, breathed in and out until I was hyperventilating, then ran straight through the wall into the next room with a war cry.

I emerged in a groggy cloud of drywall dust and immediately plowed into the overzealous gunman, and we tussled briefly in a confused mist of white. I did a head count. Two in this room. The guy who I was doing a two-step with, and his gun-toting companion, who was currently staring. I was not being shot. He could not shoot me without shooting his buddy. Lined it up quickly and efficiently. I twisted and the wood split the skin with a gush of red and went through the fleshy part of his neck.

Not his throat. He was still breathing, much to my dismay, because he was yelling a lot. I got the other chopstick in my other hand and punched him in the side, like a prison shank, and he dropped like a barrel of monkeys except instead of monkeys the barrel was full of bricks, rifle still pinned to his neck, face like stucco. He reached wordlessly, face white, and pushed the button.

I patted him on the head. He sat dumbly and watched as I moved into the next room. I was curious what would face me. And still, I was surprised. It was like walking back into Victorian England. It was seven mooks now, in various stages of disarray. The room was a cluttered, crowded mess. Like a thrift shop. A jumble sale. A garage sale. Without the garage. Or the sale. My guess is that it was a punishment room. In the military they have a punishment square. You stand on it until your legs give out, then you stand on it some more.

The Things around the room were random household objects. Kettles, waffle irons, disinfectant spray, candles, a free-standing fan, a stool. Even a stack of DVDs. But that meant the shit piled against the walls was considered un-useful. And therefore useless. Family photos. A chew toy.

A vase. More furniture. Parts of life.

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Memories lost. The five guys were playing something like Beer Pong with a folding table, baskets of varying sizes, and a tennis ball. They all looked at me dimly and unhappily as I entered, then something like dawning recognition entered some of their faces. I decided to make it so nothing would enter their faces again.

For each and every item in this cluttered, disregarded room.

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I shouted:. The Question picked up the kettle and stabbed a guy in the middle of the face with it. Two hundred pounds of rage and force and righteous vengeance behind a metal spout. I yanked it out again and punched and stabbed him in the face with it again and again. Punch two caved in his nose. Punch three took out his eye. His friends scrambled into action, but he was dead. After punch one, I think. He fell down and flesh and blood souped out and puddled on the floor. Guns came up and I kicked down my side of the folding table.

It did its job and folded. The table legs came up and into their faces and hands and the guns spat but in the wrong directions. I kicked the table at them and oxed forward into the next guy head-first.

A deep punch to his gut sank him to his knees and I grabbed him by the shirt with one hand and the hair with the other and drove his face into the floor, then kept it going, like a Hungry Hungry Hippo, making little dots of red in a line on the ground.

I looked around for something to use. My glance pivoted off a framed photo. I stopped thinking and handed the wheel back to The Question.

He elected to punch the guy in the chest with it a couple times and basically just dig into his chest cavity with its sturdy corner, smashing through his ribs and fucking him up real good.

Five guys. Burgers and fries. One of them finally made it past the table and stepped forward, swinging in a straight fist. The Question picked up a vase and held it out. Like an offering, the opening pointed right at him. I snapped the vase sideways and broke the rest of his hand and he tried to come around with a crazed right hook. I put my left up to block it and let go of the vase.

His arm swung down and the vase shattered against his knee, which I guess was a point for ME from HIM. So I went easy on him and gave him a quick death, by putting the bottom of my palm into his nose and driving the bone and cartilage straight into his brain. He crumpled, his corpse doing the watusi, puppeteered by twisted nerves, and I picked up his pistol. A 38 special. Not a bad choice. A police weapon. I stood, turned, pointed, and fired through the folding table indiscriminately.

After the revolver was spent, I pocketed it and kicked over the remains of the table.

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One guy was dead. Three others were alive. One had taken a hit to the chest and was wheezing softly, staring in disbelief at the hole that air was hissing out of.

The other two had dropped their guns and decided to charge me at once. Tactically, a pretty good idea. They pinned my arms and hit me in the teeth. I yelled without knowing it and struggled, but they were big guys, and the guy on the left kneed me in the ribs. They were fucking cowards, to hold my arms up and keep beating on me, but it definitely worked, which I guess was the goal. Then I looked past the two assholes and saw the room again. Saw Renee staring at me.

I kicked the guy on my right in the pelvis and kept kicking it. The guy on my left was still railing on me. What I did feel was bone crunch under my foot and kept stomping out.

Finally, a punch on the left hit home hard enough to get my attention. I continued pulling. Maybe that lizard asshole in Gotham. It sloshed and crunched the whole way through and crackled as it snapped off and he stood, bleeding profusely, showering himself in himself, pulp and little beads of meat and sick and blood, and felt his face. I grabbed his tongue and pulled it out too.

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It stretched like a rubber resistance band and I put my foot in his stomach and tore with all of my might and it snapped and he screamed an awful, guttural howl, and tumbled over, clutching his ruined half-face, pooling in black. I kicked a stool into my hand, lifted it above my head, gritted my teeth behind the mask, and drove it seat-first into what remained of his head like I was mashing a potato.

Looked at the guy with the ruined crotch. I picked up a wax candle from where it had fallen earlier, when I barreled into the table. First I stepped on his hands to break them. Then I stuffed his mouth and nostrils with the wax. He started to suffocate. A horrible thing. I guess. His crunched, pulped hands slapped against the ground and slapped at his face but I pushed them aside and dug around inside his mouth.

I found the sprig from the top of the candle and lit it on fire. Ignored the noises he was making. Ignored the gargled screams that started. Closed the door behind me and stepped into a windowed hallway as it started getting warm.

The screams ended. The hallway opened on a stairwell and it looked like I had reached the end of the adjoining rooms in this slum.

I was thankful. It had been like a carnival ride of poverty and manipulation and criminality. I tilted the 38 over and popped the cylinder out and pushed fresh rounds in with shaking fingers.

It was already starting to roast. I took off my coat, folded it, rolled it, and pushed it through the cracks of the boarded-up window.

Closed my eyes again.

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Jacket under window on the south side of the building. I jogged lightly up the stairs and, pleasantly enough, did not run into anybody with murderous intent.

I figured the Colonel would be somewhere towards the middle level of the building - high enough for moderate security, low enough for a quick escape in case of natural disaster. Since we were in the Midwest. This floor. Vaguely, as I marched onwards, I realized I had no fucking clue why the Colonel or this mysterious women were doing what they were doing. Not right now. I kicked in the nearest door I saw and cleared the room. Some cleaning equipment.

A cot. Nothing else. I moved onto the next door. Two of three. I kicked it in and my brain registered movement and I opened fire. Completely instinctive.

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Like a video game. POP POP POP POP POP POP. I knew the 38 was empty and dropped it. I surveyed the damage. The guy on the left was dead with holes in his cheek and right pec. The next one over was drowning.

Nothing to be done there.

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The next guy was doing the best of the bunch, holding his gut. I gave him a few minutes at most. He was leaning forward, dripping mushy red quietly into his lap. He had a hole in his right - my left - shoulder and the fatal shot was in his forehead, a little off-center.

Finally I got myself to turn around and I sat against a wall, my hand pressed to my mouth, staring helplessly at his corpse leaning against the mop, completely paralyzed in shame and horror, eyes wide, still crying, like a child again, unable to keep looking but unable to turn away.

Instead of shooting him twice. I wondered if he had a family. He must have had parents. Maybe a child; a wife.

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What could I do? What was there to do? The freedom of choice trapped me and I forced my arm to move; willed it into motion, and reached out and grabbed the 38 and put it to my head and pulled the trigger and listened to it say Click calmly and I screamed and screamed and screamed until my throat was raw and my eyes burned and it devolved into a wail and I heaved and sobbed for a third time.

I thought about my next course of action. The fire below me would be spreading upwards soon. I could let it consume me. I think. Running from failure is the epitome of selfishness. But I had no real problem with that. Because selfishness had its uses. Selfishness drove me, compelled me to hunt for answers, because I needed answers to my questions to stay whole. So what did I want more? To hide from the world; from my mistakes, in a bath of fire?

Or to finish this business once and for all and find out what people wanted with my city? Which type of closure did I want? Choosing different people to fight for every time you pick a fight is a heady proposition, especially when you spend nearly every waking moment picking fights. I was drained both physically and mentally. Which is why he moved on to the final leg of the journey, outpacing the slow flame, and moved forward.

Kicked the door in. Like an IKEA display room. There was a plastic folding table and a matching chair on one side of the windowless room. Above the desk was a map of Hub City on the wall with red Xs decorating it. They made something like a Q and the line traced through the financial district. Presumably the areas to which he had dispatched his men.

Next to the map, on the wall, was a vest. One of his identical not-Kevlar bomb vests. For the first time, I checked the plate carrier compartment. I had never felt I needed to. I could tell by the weight that something was in the compartment, so I never worried. I had assumed it was a bulletproof plate. Standard issue. Maybe the putty was defunct.

I took it off the wall and rested it near the door. A remnant from an ingenious plan. But I could certainly end him. On the other side of the room was another folding table, covered in cash. I counted ten stacks, each made up of ten more blocks.

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At a glance it looked like there were maybe five hundred bills per block. Maybe a third. The other two thirds were occupied by an assortment of weaponry. A gun belt with six pistol magazines and an empty holster on it.

Two Five-Sevens lay next to it, neatly arranged, with a pair of empty mags and a box of loose ammo. I checked the pistols. One in the chamber, in each. By leaving one in the chamber and the mags empty with ammo nearby, the Colonel ensured he had at least two shots and quick-reloadability.

I had no intention of underestimating him. What I did want to do was understand him. I wanted to know why he chose to do everything he did. Then I wanted to kill him. I put down his guns and looked around for him. It was a short search. There was nowhere to hide in the room. I looked up at the ceiling. Just to be sure. Absolutely nothing. So I looked at the door that I had just entered and said:. There was a soft patter of footsteps and The Colonel entered the room.

Glanced at the vest on the floor. He was dressed in a long sleeved t-shirt and slacks. Like a Silicon Valley millionaire or something. That was the only remotely frivolous thing about him, though. He was a little short - maybe five eleven, but built like a cactus. Ridged, bulging, and prickly-looking.

His hair was cropped close and he had no stubble. His nose was unbroken and his brow came down a little bit. We looked at each other a little bit more. We both knew what was coming.

This could only end one way. The building we were in was going to be completely consumed by fire at the top of the hour. Terrorized the Hub. This was our Reichenbach, I guess. His smile went away. I came in quick and put my fist forward, but he moved his head quickly enough that it just clocked him in the ear.

He winced and I knew it put a ringing in his head and gave me the shot I needed to get a running start and take him around the waist. We tumbled and I got a knee in, but he dug his hand into my shoulder and got himself upright. His fist went across my face and clipped the floor. He swore but did it again. My jaw moved sideways without the rest of my head. I got my forearm up the third time but he pinned it to the ground with his foot and placed his next punch right in the middle of my head.

His face went into the floor hard and came away again like a yoyo. He grunted deeply and did a fancy move, putting his hand against the ground as a stabilizing fulcrum, kicking my hand away with a spinning leg, and rolling to his feet. I was up a second slower than he was, but the second was all he needed, and like an olympic long jumper, he shot through the air. My left arm came up in time to prevent a whiplike kick from caving in my orbital, but a flush of hell deep in the forearm told me that it was fractured.

I rolled as the next one kicked up dust into my face, and shot backwards as his monstrous foot came down in a stomp. I salvaged my backwards stumble and turned it into a broad stance, feet planted, fists clenched and set wide and long. My eye felt squareish and broken when his next crushing punch broke my block and found its way into the side of my face. I dropped my right arm and his kick hit that instead of my kidney.

It hurt like hell but gave me room to breathe as he regained his balance. I pushed the advantage and rushed him, my quick charge giving my punch the extra sauce it needed to spin him halfway around.

I pressed the advantage and slapped the back of his neck, finding it, pinched my grip closed, and spun around, aiming for the folding table with the cash on it.

Except he dropped his center of gravity and got low and my spin stopped quickly. He put his shoulder into my gut and pushed my air out of my mouth and used my own momentum to throw me backwards. He swung another crushing punch in deep from the hip and I hissed breath in through my teeth as I curved around it.

There was a clear window and I put my fist through it, popping a jab into his teeth, like swinging rebar into his face.

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He flinched and I reached out and took deep, scratching handfuls, grabbing a patch of his thin hair and swinging his head downwards. So when it goes down one way, your legs go up the other way. Simply put, he was a seesaw. Like I had planned, his face went down into the ground and his legs tipped up to follow.

My clumsy elbow bit deep into his nose and it gushed with blood and he retched and gargled. I got up for an encore but he lifted one leg almost casually and kicked the air out of my body. Suddenly everything felt empty and devoid of oxygen and I was drowning without swimming. I heaved. Thirsty for life.

He got up and kicked me in the ribs and I fell onto my back like a turtle. He drove his foot into my kidney and this time it hit home. I tasted vomit and choked it down. His foot hurtled towards me again. I put my forearm into his thigh, stopping its descent, and pulled out his other leg.

He fell and hit the floor chin-first and his head whipped around. We lay on the floor together in a puddle of blood and gristle and vomit and shit and wheezed for breath. Like blind cyclists. He had the same idea. We faced each other in a depressed kind of way. We had gone into this motivated. Now we were tired and beat. I sighed and as I did that there was a glint that turned into a shimmer that turned into searing hot agony in my side.

He pulled the knife out and went for it again.

I blocked his wrist with my fractured forearm, backhanded him with my free fist, used that hand to clutch his groggy lapel, and punched him in the face until my left hand crunched every time I thought about it. He lulled. I went to drop him and he instead shot back up again and pinned me against the wall, knife coming in high.

In that one moment we were united in our tension, and it was his downfall. With one jerk I was able to push his knife down to the side, and, with minimal effort, bury it in his thigh. His right haymaker was wild, quick, and caught me in the cheek. My face and my blood felt hot and I took him by the throat and shoulder, marching forward. He grabbed my wrist and a fistful of my coat, planting his feet, and we were once again locked in a fierce stalemate.

His sweat and spit dripped off his face and mingled with the blood on the floor. I put my hat into his nose and crushed it with the rest of my head. His grip loosened and I reversed his hold, placing my own hand around his. I put my heel in his groin and he groaned so loudly it was almost a scream.

He fell to the ground. Tried to get up again. I brought my hands between his own and snapped them outwards. My fists knocked out his forearms.

For the kids who like to play pretend. The Colonel fell like a specially-constructed platform, his arms spilling out to either side, and I sat up, doing a crunch like in PE class, my head meeting his head, except mine was bigger and tougher and moving quicker, and his snapped back. Pure instinct. Pure muscle. It was just The Question. Who took him by the wrist. He was in a bad way and dimly watched, other hand slapping at my chest in wretched, dawning realization, as I brought his arm out to his side.

I hooked my leg around that arm, still holding onto it, and jumped into the air. Crocodiles have a death roll.

With another pull, I brought his shoulder out of his socket. It was about three inches too far to the left and another two too low. He would never use that arm again. We were both on the ground now, and in similar states. I had an edge, though. I stopped and aimed. I had one good shot left in me. I brought my fist up from the ground and put it right under his jaw in a deep uppercut.

The force of it popped my shoulder out of place and snapped my second and fourth fingers and I rolled over with a gasp. His teeth shattered and stabbed into his gums even as he bit off the end of his tongue and his head cocked backwards in a thin veneer of crimson mucus. He was alive. Beaten, broken, but alive. Breathing the way a robot might breathe, if it had to. Like a learned skill that he was repeating to solidify in his memory.

I shuffled over to the table with the Five-Sevens and watched. Like some evil perversion of a human, he pulled himself upright, all his appendages folding and turning for leverage, head swinging back upright, as he got to his knees. Without using his hands. I know. Why would I kill you when you have something to be given to me? This country was built on transactions. I shot him. It was very loud. A black hole the size of a dollar coin appeared to the left his right and a little up of his left my right eye.

I was aiming for his tear duct and missed by an inch to my left his right. He just suddenly froze and then fell over, very quickly, the back of his head hanging loose like a four-dollar toupee, brain and blood lathered on the inside like jam on toast.

A shiny black pooled under him. Not like movie blood at all. Like oil. His crushed, muscled body looked empty. I looked at the door. Oh well. I ejected the magazine and pulled the slide back, forward, and off my pistol. The main body of the gun I wiped off and put on his corpse, so that the barrel would have been pointing at his dick and the magwell was pointing off to his right - my left - arm.

I popped one round out and threw the mag to the right and the slide to the left. Put the bullet right down underneath the gun, to make a rudimentary question mark. Not a warning, not a hint, not some self-serving tease; a reminder. A reminder that I was judge, jury, and executioner. A reminder that I could get to anyone, anywhere, and a reminder that I intended on doing just that. I moved to the door.

The fire was eating through the floor. I wanted it so badly to be over. My body thought it was over, that's for sure. Every tendon, every bit of sinew screamed, screamed "let us die. Not yet. In the Children's Home, younger children had to stay still during the one hour rest, if you can't be trusted to last an hour without the need to go for a pee, waterproof pants would be provided.

Children in one place for an hour gave a chance for the staff to have a short rest. For any child that had wet themselves whilst wearing waterproofs, it was up to them when they told the staff about the accident, the longer you put it off, the later the telling off became.

If you told them shortly after tea time, your bath and bed happened very soon. The elastic in the leg part was strong enough to prevent all but the most serious accidents from been noticed. This might be the second of the two photos, this is the one after the telling off after making a silly face. There were two of us with the same age and looks, our Sisters treated us in such similar ways, we seemed to get into the same scrapes whilst out at play in the grounds of the Home.

It was not a case of blaming each other when found out, but we did give each Sister problems of finding which of us had been up to mischief. When it came to playing outside, it was difficult to tell us apart at a distance, we didn't try to copy each other as to our clothing, but in the grounds two boys of a similar age, similar looks, both often in dungarees and wellington boots, did give the staff that did not really know us a problem if we had been spotted doing something we should not be up to.

That both of us did such similar things did not help. I think when our descriptions were circulated around by the staff trying to find a culprit, both our Sisters would never claim that it was us, but mention it must be the other boy. Often with just a choice of two culprits out of boys, we soon were found out. They were possibly thankful that we were in different groups and went to different primary schools. Both of us were often told to wear waterproofs under our shorts or dungarees to stop us causing a regular nuisance in asking to go to the toilet after an hour from the last visit.

The main reason why I would put in an early request, was that although I might not be in an urgent need at that moment, by going at this time, it would save any urgent need a little later. Unlike most of the other boys who found they could wait and suffer in pain for a short while when they needed a pee, if I knew really to have a pee, there was no way I could delay or suffer in pain, I just had to go at that moment.

Trying to make sure I always went when I thought I should, was the main way I annoyed the adults, they really only wanted us to go at either at their scheduled toilet visits for us, or if we had signalled we were in urgent need, after at least an hour.

The staff found the easy solution of putting us in waterproofs, when we might cause a nuisance if our timing was not convenient for them. At the age of eight it was not thought by the Sister that looked after me in the Children's Home, that I could not last through the hour and a half church service, having to wear waterproof pants under my trousers meant I never had any problems.

My friend had a Sister with similar thoughts. In a way, I was glad of the reassurance they provided and that nothing would be noticed if I did have a problem during the service, I never did have an accident in chapel. Before I arrived at the children's home, I would have thought it quite normal to ask an adult when I wanted to go to the toilet.

For many of us in the Home, it seemed that we had to wait for Sister to tell us when we were allowed to go, due to the mischief that occurred when we had been allowed to go off when we wanted. At first I was slightly embarrassed when Sister told me to put them on, I soon found out that an accident whilst wearing them resulted in little punishment, have an accident without them on, that embarrassed Sister in front of others and you would be in trouble at a later point in time.

Sister decided that at the age of eight, that if she was taking me out to the shops, or if I was going on coach rides or the like and I was going to be away from the Home for two hours or more, I was told to put them on, just in case I needed a pee. I don't think she thought I would be able to hold on for longer periods, at least I was never embarrassed, as some of the other children that had accidents during our outings who didn't have them.

When I first I wore them to school to show a friend what we were given to wear, he never told any of the others in our class, I think he was so fascinated and surprised that we followed the orders of the staff that looked after us in the Children's Home.

He thought I had only come to school in them once due to a dare he made, he never knew that if I was due to go on a school trip, or that there was any other event other than normal lessons.

Sister would see that I wore them when I set off to school, there was no chance of taking them off for the risk of them been found or loosing them, the punishment from Sister would have been unthinkable compared for a mild telling off if they were actually needed. At least on a school outing and other special events, it was one less worry for me. Some of the Sisters never let us visit public toilets if we were taken out of the grounds, the real reason was never explained, if we were given a reason why we were not to visit them, that they were not very clean, seemed to keep us innocent of any potential problems.

We might miss out on all that fun of playing with the roller towel, leaving the taps running with the plug in the sink and other little events that we would never be found out over, but we could have equal fun on a dry day as to who could make the biggest puddle or leave the longest streak of pee on the pavement without any of the staff noticing.

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Manneken Pis Dutch for little man pee is a Brussels landmark. Ok this is probably the most honest I am ever going to be on flickr but yes I cried myself to sleep on Wednesday night I went to bed exhausted and feeling a little hormonal at the thought of going to college and leaving my kids with childminders!!!

Yep you would think I should be happy but I have never left them since they were born!!! Anyway, Wednesday night Ritchie gets up for a pee in my bedroom toilet of course and hides behind the door. I'm grumpy because I couldn't find any painkillers for my period pains and had to cope with a hot water bottle!!!!!! Anyway I just fell asleep and realised he was in the room so, I shouted and dragged him back to his own bed bad mother that I am!!!!

So I crawl back to bed and can't sleep because I feel awful that he was uspet. So I sneak down to his bedroom about 2 minutes later to apologise for shouting but explaining that mummy is tired and the conversation goes like this:. Mummy: Ritch, I'm sorry for shouting at you but I'm just a little bit tired. Mummy cries even harder sighhhhhhhhhhh! I crawled up to bed heavy hearted and cried myself to sleep, thinking about cancelling my college course because I was being selfish and arguing with myself that I should be at home with my babies!!

Now I'm posting this pic because they are the love of my life and as much as they drive me nuts jesus do I love them. For reasons known only to Ozzie himself he has decided that he does not like Rugby.

If I turn on a game and he's in the room he immediately jumps up and leaves, headed for the safety of his kennel. Doesn't happen with American Football, doesn't happen with Soccer, doesn't happen with Aussie Rules just Rugby. Look up the definition of snowflake in the dictionary and I'm sure you'll find a picture of Ozzie.

The wife says he's a sensitive boy, I say he's a sissy crybaby pee the bed boy. Either way though he's still our little pain in the backside. My old time friend Kerri sent me this cap upon seeing some of my previous work with newborns.

Still glad we went with Dylan, even if it was just hours before he was born. Go visit her Etsy shop for many more of her creative newborn props. So Ethan wore this cap very well, and was a mostly good little boy. He did pee about a pint of baby juice onto my white felt background, which is sure better than this more expensive furry piece of fabric.

Many of you might be going through some hard times in your life. So very true. If we dust ourselves off and learn from it, we only grow stronger. Miss Woolly at the billabong with a baby grasshopper on her cheekwhich I didn't notice at the time. Anyway, good news about Woollygirl, the best birthday present possible, received the day before when we went back to see 'Auntie Anne', the local vet for a blood test. Just occasionally, MW's gone a bit off over the years, the first time being about months of age.

She had a blood test at another local vet, who I must say, was a young, obese, over-confident locum standing in for the regular one and well, she didn't 'capture my confidence' as soon as we walked in. She failed to find a vein and the whole preceedure became a complete shamozzle, with poor baby Woolly finally sinking down to the floor with abject horrified surrender in a crumpled heap while Miss Fattyboombrakes Vet continued to stick her with the needle over and over again, then cheerfully declaring, "Oh, that's interesting, this has never happened before, now I'm getting blood out of her muscle!

Woollygirl bounced back from whatever that was and I started to question if it was just the different Maremma nature, far different from breeds I was more familiar with.

Anyway, she definitely wasn't right a few weeks ago, so off we went to this new vet at another local place with a jar of her pee.

The Worst Place Ever to be Caught with your Pants Down

Vet said it did look a bit too murky, indicating either a bladder infection or at worst, kidney disease, so for a start, put her on antibiotics in case it was a UTI and we planned to do a blood test another day which I kept putting off.

She bucked up soon after starting the tablets, began eating again and returned to her normal self. Coming up to my birthday, I could hardly bear the thought of any bad news, but she'd developed a limp in the back, then a worse limp in the front, so two days ago off we went again. Although a pee sample hadn't been requested this time, I was curious to see, so again I followed Woolly around the yard. Only had to do this once with Bobby, but being a boy dog, the scenario, well, more to the point, yes, I did say that, the angle is completely different.

On arrival to this new vet I'm quite amazed the girls come in to the clinic when I ask them, without having to be coaxed in on leads. Even MW, who was clearly not keen, stood outside and procrastinated a minute, gave a little whine, but in she came anyway. Whatever nerves happen outside are forgotten once they've passed through the door. So many interesting smells, other animals, the packets of dry food, the TREATS.

Yes, they always get a little bag of those at the end, with my intention of a happy association to this experience. Then there's the weighing machine. They both go straight to the platform and take turns in getting weighed. Then more turns. Auntie Vet's in her late 30's but she still gets the giggles from this.

For a moment we all forget what we came to do. MW's actually gained weight too, which is not an indicator at all for kidney disease - usually one of the biomarkers is sudden severe weightloss - so I could feel my hopes rising. The turbidity was now not a bad sign, as the kidneys should concentrate the urine overnight if they're working properly, and this was the first woolly piddle of the day.

Auntie Vet reckoned the kidneys were definitely problem free, then a thorough examination of all MW's joints showed no problem and no pain reaction, so perhaps she'd just slipped or knocked herself around while playing boisterously. I replied, " Well, I Do think she's So much better, back to her normal self, oh, much much better, back to normal, absolutely, eating well. I'll just keep an eye on her, look for any changes ".

I did promise to bring her back for teeth cleaning sometime soon and while she's asleep the blood test can be carried out at the same time. So it's a happy house now, with MW's UTI gone - and no longer on anti-inflammatories for her limps, they're gone too - and her appetite and bouncy exuberance returned.

A worry at the time, but a valuable lesson for getting to know the nature of one's dog sespecially how well they communicate - even Pips, when she had those ticks upsetting her - as long as you're paying attention. This was not meant to be so long, sorry about that, but thanks for reading, and it might serve to help to other doggies and their peeps. One smart cookie. So the better vets don't have to get someone else to do their job and you pay through the nose for the slack ones, I reckon!

Scaring Jane here with a story so horrible it will drag your eyeballs right off your face and send them into orbit around your head. As if that weren't enough it will lengthen your ears and make your tongue poke out of your nostrils. So put a paper bag over your head and bite your fingers in silence as I recite to you a fearsome little tale I like to call.

One day a nice couple living in a nice house in a nice suburb made a mistake. It was a mistake anyone could make. It was the man of the couple who made the mistake. His name was Lucas and here is what he did. He bought cameras and set them up all over the house to film anything weird that might be happening. This is an obvious thing not to do and yet Lucas did it.

On the fourth night of recording, the pots and pans in the kitchen all moved one centimetre to the left. On the fifth night of recording, the pots and pans in the kitchen all moved one centimetre back to the right. On the seventh night of recording, the fridge door opened and a single egg floated slowly out of the fridge, through the downstairs rooms, up the stairs and smashed itself open over Lucas' head. Lucas and his girlfriend, Kelly, were not too happy when they reviewed the footage.

Kelly told Lucas that it was all his fault for setting up the cameras and this was true. So the next day Lucas came home to find Kelly sitting on the couch with a priest, a psychic and a demonologist. That sounds like a joke where a priest, a psychic and a demonologist walk into a bar, and the priest says, "I don't believe in spirits, but I'll take a small whisky," and the psychic says, "I do believe in spirits, and yours look delicious," and the demonologist says "Begone spirits from this place!

Sorry, that was a very violent joke. So our boy Lucas was not too happy to see all of these people in his house, and that's before he got the bad news. He performed ghastly experiments on his patients and they are wandering around the place seeking revenge. because a powerful demon dressed as a nun has latched onto your armpits and it will follow you from house to house until you die and follow it back to hell.

Some of them keep their faces down there so they feel it's for the best. Then a wimple hides demon pimples! Lucas was getting a little bored by all the exposition, backstory and fashion commentary that the three experts were spouting.

He's the one who bought the cameras. And now if you'll excuse me I have to run out to my car and vomit hot tacks. So when the three experts had all left, the demonologist slamming the door rather hard behind him, Lucas found himself alone with his angry girlfriend. Do you want to make contact?

Can I help you out in any way at all? The Ouija board quickly spelled out, "YES," "YES," and "MAYBE, HA HA HA" before bursting into flames.

Kelly came into the room with her smoothie and was not pleased to find Lucas putting out a small fire on the coffee table. So Kelly called up her mother and told her to come and over right away, which she did while Lucas sat sulkily in the den watching football and thinking up new and unpleasant mother-in-law jokes. Now Kelly's mother was called Hecate Pandemonia which should have been a clue to something or other, especially as she had originally been named Lula-Jo Spettlehatch.

However some ladies of a certain age get a little dramatic from time to time so Kelly had disregarded the name change.

This may include adverts from us and 3rd parties based on our understanding. You can unsubscribe at any time. More info. The footage shows three people, one man and two young boys, pulling down on what appears to be a long, elasticated bungee cord.

He makes it back to earth safely, but doubtless completely embarrassed - in addition to the two helping the boy pull down the cord at the beginning, there are at least three other people watching, visible in the background.

This unsuspecting victim was given the fright of his life as part of the DVD release of The Conjuring 2 - but the bone-chilling prank took an unexpected turn when the man threw his bottle at the actor. This comes after Express. uk reported on a viral video of a blonde girl who had an extreme reaction to riding a rollercoaster. The blonde beauty has been captured on camera by her boyfriend as they took on a stomach-churning rollercoaster ride. Sitting in a brightly coloured seat, the woman started off looking calm and serene, with a grin on her face.

But as the ride began its hair-raising ascent, her expression changed slightly to one of apprehension. The carriage ticked over the highest hump before hurtling down towards the ground at alarming speed.

It flew vertically to the earth before rocketing upwards again on repeat.



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