But your tone is what
the fuck wait hold on what the fuck?
Chris explains: 'I'm house sitting.'
Frank, smugly incredulous: 'For a third time.'
Al: 'We don't know if he knows, but his uncle collected a
lot of magic stuff.'
'And we bought most of the magic junk that he sold when
emptying the shed.' Pete takes the golf driver back. 'Now, a wise man once said
that hard labour can help cure a hangover.'
James: 'Eric wasn't that wise.'
Frank demurs: 'He knew about hangovers.'
'He died.'
James and Al have already climbed onto the roof and begun
removing tiles. Frank fills an esky with beers and the rest of you scramble up,
pass tiles from one to another into a pile at the roof's far end. There are no
struts supporting the tiles in the roof's shape. Beneath the roof, on top of
the ceiling, is a folded trebuchet.
Chris and Pete begin unfolding the trebuchet. You drink
with Frank. James and Al try to piss from roof into back-neighbours front yard:
'This is for subdivision.'
It may be the roof beers, but the trebuchet seems to be
five times the height of the house. Al pops through manhole into the house,
comes back in a flight suit and with a bottle of whiskey.
'You know, I thought this was the sensible option, but
perhaps another round of golf would have landed me back at the hotel.'
James reassures him: '"Landed" being the
operative word.'
The trebuchet is counterweighted with roof tiles. Al
reclines drinking in the sling. You climb off the roof. Chris remains to pull
the lever. Al is flung into the air with a fwooosh
that covers whatever noise he screams.
You drink: 'Do we put the tiles back, now?'
Chris shrugs: 'Nah, leave that for the morning.'
You garnish with:
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