Rotter ignored the driver. The route was too predictable and would take him where he wanted to go. Kings Road, Knightsbridge, Park Lane, Piccadilly. As the cab edged its way along Shaftesbury Avenue, he took his phone out of his pocket, sent a text, told the driver "next right."
They turned in to a narrow street. "Stop here and wait." Rotter sat staring intently up at a lit window above an open door. Tiffany watched the cab meter for what seemed an eternity as the fare mounted. The driver read his newspaper.
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Fist is a four letter word. So is fist, fist, fist, fist, fist, fist fist, fist, fist, fist, fist, and, well you get the fist-fucking picture....
THE WESTCOUNTRY SHALL RISE AGAIN!
Yay! It's pink!
Don't think.... FEEL!
We're Englishmen, and we came here, to rape your women and drink your beer.
I went back in time and voted for Hitler.
Pouring oil on troubled waters since 2008. Then lighting a fucking match.
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