chester and ingrid

#18

ingrid was wrong.

chester wasn't a douche-canoe.

no, he wasn't just that.

he was the most douchiest-douche-face ever [even more so than peter van houten, if you like tfios]

what could be more worse than cracking a honey-boo-boo joke,

you ask?

try poking her every five. f-in. seconds

or, ou, no!

how about tripping her on the way out of the bus!

yeah, I like that one!

"haha, OH, AHAHAHA AHA OH MY GOSH AHA-" and it went on

and on

and, well, onnn..

she really wanted to be shot in the head,

even more so than the gravel that found home in her face,

and scorched out her eyeballs [not really].

though the continuous thought always made way in her head. 

he.

would.

pay.

~~~

"ahh, ingrid, welcome back, you look well.. glad to see you've, uh,

recovered?" even mr.rooster laughed at the sight of her gauze-taped face.

"yes, i am so enlightened, mr.rooster. thanks." she said, rolling her head and eyes,

looking at him sardonically.

"oh, yes, well, you know me.. anyway, i better assign your group your car,

so we can all get the show on the road. just follow me, and here's the keys"

he tossed them to chester, so ingrid didn't have a chance to check what kind they were getting, out of the ancient sea of muscle cars.

but she could hear the hiss of 'yes' from chester, which she didn't trust.

what could possibly get him excited?

nevertheless, she followed mr.r, whom led them through the maze of chevys, and older trucks, towards their car.

she could already see the one he was leading them toward,

and it stood out for sure.

she could see it as clear as day, though she wished not to.

oh

dear

gosh no.