Layla took another step forward, blissfully ignorant of the shitstorm—literally—that lay before her and Said,
"Axel, Axel, Axel... I know this can be perceived in a different light. Me and Brent... but... but... I assure you this is a misunderstanding."
Axel, sensing an opportunity, decided to go full dramatic diva. He dramatically dismissed her with a flourish, turned around in a sassy manner, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes like he was channeling his inner soap opera star.
"Oh, don't fool me with your fake voice, Layla. It might work on that fool, but not me. I've seen what a chameleon you are."
He was milking the moment for all it was worth, savoring every second of his performance.
"I've seen it with my own eyes. What more can you say against that, huh? That what I saw was nothing? That it's perfectly normal for friends to be—man, why am I wasting my time here?"
Axel didn't know exactly what was going on between Layla and Brent. All he had seen was Brent's hand on her back and heard the fatso mention some hand-holding shenanigans. Beyond that, there wasn't any concrete evidence to prove anything.
This was a complete shit show—a mess of epic proportions. He was just hoping she'd take the bait and spill the beans on what exactly was happening.
And it looked like Kris' best friend's gamble was paying off because what Layla said next made Axel's eyes widen in question.
...
Back at the contaminated zone called "the Bathroom," Kris was crouching near the door, surrounded by a battlefield of his own slimy poop, a landscape painted in fifty shades of brown. It looked like a chocolate fondue disaster had exploded in there, with Kris at ground zero.
He had lost what felt like a good 100 kilos, but his stomach was still rumbling like a pissed-off volcano ready to blow its top.
The only safe spot left in this biohazard zone was the tiny patch where Kris was still pooping. It was like a sinking island in a sea of brown sludge. If this white porcelain throne turned any browner, there wouldn't be any more places in the bathroom that could be called "safe" for human habitation. It was like trying to find a clean spot in a mud wrestling pit.
Could he go outside and unleash his concentrated poison there? Hell no. Not with the audience he knew was just meters away. Besides, facing them in his current state—half-covered in his own shit and stark naked—was a big fucking no.
His pants hung on the bathroom hanger a few feet away, taunting him like a mirage in a desert of shit. Navigating through the poo minefield was about as appealing as an anal exam with a cactus, so he decided to just forget about the pants altogether.
But exiting the room without pants? No fucking way. His lover was right outside the door, and seeing him in this pathetic, pantsless, poo-covered state would flush whatever dignity he had left down the toilet along with all their feelings.
Just a few moments ago, when his darling Layla's voice penetrated his poop-addled brain, Kris felt a surge of activity, like his neurons had suddenly decided to start firing again.
Her talk of a "misunderstanding" had sparked a tiny glimmer of hope in the darkest depths of this fecal hellhole, like a flickering candle in a sewer.
"I'm not telling you to believe me. No. All I want is you to listen to me. Out of the two of you, you're the level-headed person. I know that. You know that, right? Before you judge me like a street whore, j-just listen to me. That is all I'm asking you."
The muffled voice from outside made Kris's heart do a little jig, like a hopeful yet clueless romantic in a rom-com. He leaned closer to the door, trying to catch every word, wishing that damn door wasn't standing between them.
He wanted so badly to hear her say it was all just a big misunderstanding—maybe the hand-holding was just for safety, since the bridge was under construction or some shit.
But like everything in his life, that tiny glimmer of hope turned out to be a big, fat disappointment.
...
'Manipulative bitch! Look at her, spinning words like a fucking spider weaving a web. So soothing, so kind—who would ever think she's a fucking bitch?'
Axel was fuming inside, feeling the rage boil up like an overfilled kettle. The way she called him the "level-headed" one? Classic bullshit.
She didn't know him at all. Level-headed? He was just too shy to talk to her freely while she hung out with Kris. Making new friends was as easy for him as passing an anal exam. She had no clue what he was really like—just another layer of her fucking manipulative game.
Axel was just Kris' childhood friend, not a close or best friend but more like a guy who lived down the street and shared a few awkward childhood moments. They played together occasionally, but it wasn't until they grew up that they got closer, probably out of sheer lack of better options.
"..."
"Axel..."
"...Fine. What could you possibly say? Let's hear it then."
Axel finally relented, not because he was interested in her sob story, but because he knew his buddy Kris would want to hear the bullshit straight from her mouth.
He could tell Kris was listening too; the bathroom had gone dead quiet. Earlier, it was like a horror movie soundtrack in there with shouts and wet farting noises every ten seconds. Now? Total radio silence. Kris was definitely tuning in.
'Look at her, pushing her tits like that. Bitch really knows how to play the game.'
Layla had the sad puppy face down to an art form, like she was just too pure for this world. Her sculpted features certainly helped—pretty privilege was a real thing, and this woman knew how to wield it like a weapon.
She had her puppy eyes locked on Axel, hands under her breasts, pushing them upwards to reveal a tantalizing amount of cleavage.
He gulped but quickly averted his gaze from the tempting sight. No matter what, his friend loved this woman, and that was reason enough for him to keep his eyes and thoughts pure, despite the evil temptress vibes radiating off her like a neon sign.
"What you saw... it is all true. Me and Brent have been... huh... doing stuff for the past month..."
Axel stood there, unmoved, like a statue sculpted from disbelief and annoyance. He simply stared at her, letting the silence stretch, waiting for more.
Her confession sounded so sad that even Axel, who had every reason to be pissed, felt a twinge of guilt for not immediately leaping to her defense. But he reminded himself that this woman was, after all, a conniving bitch.
"But it isn't what you think it is. I know you might think I'm an evil bitch, but I want you to hear my side before you pass judgment. This wasn't classic cheating or anything. I don't know if you know, but... your friend... Kris is very—sob~ sob~—very abusive—sob~ sob~"
Tears began to spill from her beautiful puppy eyes, looking so genuine that Axel felt a pang of confusion. Those eyes were like a weapon of mass manipulation, capable of making anyone believe her bullshit.
Axel's brain, despite knowing better, started to entertain the thought that maybe, just maybe, this wasn't entirely her fault. Maybe Kris was abusive? No, no, that couldn't be right.
But the tears... they seemed so real, so convincing, like a Hollywood performance aimed straight at his guilty conscience.
How could a sweet, innocent angel like Layla ever hurt anyone? Axel's brain, desperately clinging to logic, was losing a fierce battle against his heartstrings being pulled like a marionette.
Those tears looked so genuine, so raw, like they were distilled from the tears of angels, or perhaps more aptly, the tears of manipulative sirens.
Axel felt his chest burn with an overwhelming desire to comfort Layla, like a knight compelled to save a damsel in distress, even if that damsel was the reason for the distress in the first place.
He took a step forward, his hand reaching out to wipe away the crocodile tears from her cheeks. He couldn't stand to see someone as "kind" and "innocent" as Layla in tears. In his head, he knew she might be full of shit, but those puppy eyes were fucking persuasive.
But then, just like in every cliché movie where the hero is saved by a surprise side character, Axel's savior arrived...