Bam~
The first punch landed straight on Kris' chubby face, making his cheeks jiggle like a pair of water balloons in a windstorm. Brent's fist bounced back, almost as if his hand was rejecting Kris' doughy flesh.
Kris flew to the side and hit the wall like a poorly aimed dart. He hadn't seen the punch coming at all; his mind was too wrapped up in thoughts of Layla, imagining her getting submerged in the literal and metaphorical shit of their situation.
Kris hit the tiled wall and slid down, smearing his entire side with his own brown mess.
"You think you can defeat me with what? That fat of yours? That's why Layla chose me. I got muscles, charm, and enough hotness to melt steel, while all you have is layers and layers of flab!"
Brent kicked and stomped on Kris like a toddler throwing a tantrum, his feet slipping occasionally and landing right into Kris's ample belly. Each stomp was laced with venomous intent, like he was trying to squash a particularly annoying cockroach.
He truly wanted the fat man down there gone, even if it meant sending him to an early grave.
Kris, on the other hand, refused to go down without a fight. He wasn't about to be humiliated by both his girlfriend and his best friend. No way. He was going to show them who was boss.
"Die, you stupid waste of space."
Brent snarled, lifting his foot to stomp on Kris' head. But, like in every cheesy action movie, Kris opened his eyes just in time and caught Brent's leg with his hand.
"You were like a brother to me, Brent. I thought you, of all people, would be my pillar of support, just like that whore over there."
Kris's voice was quiet and feeble, on the brink of bursting with anger.
"Oh, yeah? Did I break your heart too, fatty? Is that the issue? You fucking fatty!"
Brent taunted as Kris gripped his leg tighter, starting to pull himself up.
"We lived like family, ate together like one, we were in each other's houses all the time. I thought it would continue that way forever..."
"Shut it. Shut it and die, you stupid fatty. I never considered you even as a friend, not even once!"
Brent pushed his leg forward and wriggled free from Kris's grip. Now liberated, Brent swung his fist at Kris's head, but Kris just tilted his head to the side, letting the punch sail past him and collide with the tiled wall.
A loud crack echoed through the room, and Brent howled in pain, clutching his throbbing hand.
"Friendship only lasts until a hot girl shows up, huh, Brent?" Kris sneered.
That was the sad reality of their so-called camaraderie. It wasn't some spiritual bond or anything meaningful; just two dudes hanging out because they had nothing better to do. So, when something precious and eye-catching appeared, people ditched the old friend faster than a bad habit.
Brent didn't reply, his face twisted in pain and embarrassment.
"No more Mr. Nice Guy. No more fucking with me. Let's end this. Eat this, motherfucker!"
Kris roared, balling his hand into a fist and channeling the power of a thousand horses into one punch. He launched it straight into Brent's jaw.
The impact was so forceful it felt like the ground itself trembled. Brent flew backward as if hit by a speeding car, crashing into the corner wall before collapsing face-first into the filth below.
"How's that for a friendship bracelet, you dickhead?" Kris muttered, shaking his hand and feeling the satisfaction of a well-landed punch.
"Br-Brent...!"
Layla jolted awake, the ear-piercing scream from Brent slicing through her foggy consciousness.
The last thing she remembered was facing Kris, and then being flung aside like a ragdoll. She was sure that the human doughnut, Kris, had hit her hard enough to knock her out. There was no way Brent would ever do that to her.
So when she saw Brent sprawled on the ground, motionless, she was horrified. The dim lighting hid the blood spewing from her beloved's mouth, not to mention the shit-stained battlefield around them.
She didn't even notice the fresh turd Picasso smeared on the back of her dress when she fell on her ass.
"You monster! What have you done?"
She shrieked, stumbling towards Brent like a drunk trying to pass a sobriety test. She knelt beside him, cradling his head in her lap and shaking him with all the strength her trembling hands could muster.
"Brent... Brent, please wake up, oh god no... wake up... Brent..."
She pleaded, her voice cracking like a poorly tuned violin. Kris watched the scene unfold, feeling more certain than ever that this woman had never given a flying fart about him.
"You fucking fatso—mpfff!"
Layla turned her head to scream at Kris, but before she could finish, Kris stuffed something into her mouth. And no, you perverts, it wasn't his pecker. It was something far nastier: his poop.
"I should have done this months ago."
Kris said with a devilish grin, watching her gag and retch, clutching her throat like she'd swallowed a live eel. She vomited again, crawling on the ground, desperately trying to escape this fecal nightmare.
Meanwhile, Brent had recovered, and he was angrier than a bull on steroids. His eyes locked onto the doughy villain who was cackling like a hyena.
Without making a sound, Brent launched himself at Kris, aiming for his fat, thick neck. He wrapped his arms around Kris's neck and started squeezing.
"I'll fucking kill you, you bastard! I'll kill you!" Brent roared, his veins bulging like overstuffed sausages.
Kris, meanwhile, was flailing like a fish out of water, trying to pry Brent's tree-trunk arms off his neck. His face turned a lovely shade of blueberry, and he couldn't even slip a finger into the iron grip.
Meanwhile, Layla figured it was best to get whatever unspeakable horror Kris had shoved in her mouth out and make a swift exit.
The gagging and choking were making it hard to breathe, so she crawled toward the wall and slumped against it like a ragdoll.
Her eyes were bloodshot, and for some unfathomable reason, her nose was bleeding. She guessed it was a souvenir from Kris's culinary catastrophe.
She pried her mouth open wide and started scooping out the contents with her hands, trying to clear her throat of the foul mess, all while the other two were busy turning their own personal wrestling match into a circus.
Layla was so engrossed in her grim task that she didn't notice the other duo inching closer. By the time she realized they were closing in, it was too late.
Kris's yoga ball of a stomach barged into her like a runaway truck, pinning her against the wall without giving her an ounce of wiggle room. And just when she thought things couldn't get worse, something else entered her mouth.
And yes, perverts, it was Kris's pecker—now a final, unwelcome addition to her already disturbing buffet.