The old lady drew back from the bus' outstretched tounge, exclaiming: 'cor, stop lickin', it's disgusting! Eurgh'.

Sweg pimp adjusted his ballin' sunglasses as he strolled down the street, making sure to show off his gold dollar necklace and sweghat.

'The worst part', thought John as the monstrosities' maw snapped shut on his legs, 'is that I'm being eaten by a literal pile of shit.'

THE HANDS. MY GOD, THE HANDS. Oh, and they're quite rude, too.

My oh my, an abstract sea shell. How GOD DAMN FUCKING QUAINT OF YOU, ANON.

Fuck you TV, I've got the internet. PC MASTER RACE!

NO MORE STICKMEN.

It was over. With not a shred of hope left, they had nothing to do but await the concusion.

Dracula' rage increased, his arms flailing wildly in a tantrum, his face going beetroot-red. IT JUST WASN'T FAIR! Why should HE go bald?!.

The undead cyborg gazed back at her, before replying- 'Negative. I am afraid this is reality.' Meanwhile, the bunker doors buckled.