“One of you tell me what the hell I drank to agree to this gig because I was fifty shades of fuckin’ done twenty minutes ago an’ countin’.”
The rattling sigh from Roman as the multitudes of doggy faces peered down upon him while he laid spread-eagled on the grassy knoll of a local park only grew deeper as they all looked about perplexed as he was on the reason he had, first and foremost agreed to Lita’s charity dog run for A.D.O.R.E on a weekday and secondly, why he had thought for a moment that gamely taking seven of them at once, all large breeds to run with to the finishing line was anything that remotely resembled a good idea.
“You. Asshole numero uno. What you got you got to say for yourself?”
He pointed at the Pitbull who panted back at him nonchalantly, clearly proud of itself for having run him to the ground.
“No? How about you, Beethoven?”
His attention shifted to the tail-thumping St.Bernard who was looming directly over his head and the hound had about as much grasp of the situation as the pitbull did, its answer coming out in thick ropes of drool that spattered down upon the Samoan’s nose and mouth.
“Paaah! Pffffwah! Jesus fffff—-man I knew I liked Tchaikovsky’s shit better for a reason!”
Sitting up immediately, he managed to wipe off most of the slobber before scratching the massive hound around heavily-drooping jowls and staring at the hands of the Patek Phillipe watch on his wrist.
“Twenty minutes to go. Lost count of how many city blocks. Finish line can’t be far off now…”
