Pool_1

"OK OK. Anyway it was just a stink bomb," wrong thing to say. This time they did tickle him until he wet. "Hey. That ain't fair," embarrassed, but still laughing. "I'm going to put whipped cream in your shoes - or something." Chuck and Aldo looked at each other, and together yelled, "TICKLE HIM!" as Marcus ran screaming and laughing out of the house, down the block, into the woods, wet pants and all through the badest meanest sticker bushes he could find. Never looking back, why bother, guarantee Chuck was in hot pursuit. This escape, tried before, was totally useless. There was no escaping Chuck. The last time Marcus sprayed Chuck's butt with whipped cream, the tall lanky guy was just stepping out of the shower. He chased Marcus, who still clutched the cream spray can, out of the house, down the block, through the woods, through every single sticker bush, there were plenty, out of the woods, down the mountain cliff in hurled free slide, and into an industrial area below. There, just past the many rows of big trucks and howling truck drivers, the tall wet totally buck naked scratched and bleeding everywhere angel of doom collared his prey. "Gotcha!" lifting the little devilish Marcus from his feet, up, up then eyeball to eyeball, "Y-y-you c-c-can't escape n-n-nay-naynaykid justice!" Marcus just smiled and deposited a squirt of whipped cream on Chuck's nose. Well clad in the grand demeanor of inevitability and victory Chuck marched Marcus back up the mountain, through the woods, up the road, back to the house, to the bed room and onto the bed and tickled him until he begged for mercy never disturbing the cream on his own nose. His way of saying cream does not bother me. Chuck's enemy was not to be found in substance, but in essence.