Your name is Ashley. Last name, irrelevant. For laughs or Glendower or some other dropped plot-line, you’ve agreed to a date with a senior who dresses like an aspiring business major. “Let me show you this little place I know,” he says. The “place” is an abandoned factory with a fridge in the bathroom. “I’ve been dead for seven years,” one of the roommates tells you. Despite this, the mattress on the floor belongs to the owner. He’s below drinking age and shaking from the high of Welsh legend. “I thought you had tennis,” your date says to his brother, who frequents a different type of court. “Whore,” he replies, in more words. This living situation feels distinctly illegal. Your date turns to you, “He found Dad’s body. Lobster?” On the drive back he informs you you need to use the restroom. You don’t. “You do,” he says. He pulls into a neon-lit pizzeria on the edge of town and proceeds to murder his brother. Well, attempt murder. His face is smeared across your window. You roll it down. “Nosy bitch,” the shaky one says, in more words. There’s blood on his boat shoes. You get replaced by someone with the same face and name. In 3 years, Declan Lynch will claim he’s never had a revealing date in his life.
origamiaround
yousharknotpass
dailybridgerton
stormborns
snowghoul
