Who: Pete and Kitty When: Sometime this afternoon. Where: Outside Pete's apartment. What: Pete just woke up. Pete is not clothed. Pete steps outside for his paper. Rating: R for naughty language. Ooh. Status: In Progress
"Mother-shiting piece of fucking ball grease" was one of the many ways Pete Wisdom usually greeted the morning - or late afternoon, depending on how much there was to drink the night before - and usually that string of nonsensical filth continues to vomit from his mouth in long strings until he could manage to pull the shade down over the chipper morning (or late afternoon) sun that was invading his room, shining down into his face much like an extremely suburban housewife would attempt to wake their own children.
Obnoxiously, for anyone who was interested in knowing.
Then, he fell back into a deep state of unconsciousness for another hour. That was always the way, and a lovely pocket of drool had spread itself on his pillow by the time he awoke for the second time, ready to greet the rest of the world in his own special way.
"Nicotine," he groaned out, smacking his lips together to get the taste of morning from his tongue. A cigarette was plugged into his mouth, and without opening his eyes, Pete worked his way out of bed and into the bathroom. A good morning piss was in order, and he needed to stand around and scratch himself for the mandatory forty-five seconds before trolling out to find his the paper.
Right. Onward, then. One eye cracked open as he made his way out of the bathroom, through the tiny excuse of a living area and toward the front door. Pete barely even remembered to reach down a cup a hand over his bits before taking a few steps out into the hallway to have a look around. The world couldn't handle the sight of his amazing cock, and he knew that. More's the pity.
What was this shit? Did they not deliver the mail to people's doorsteps in this establishment?