You look around at the impromptu party. Everything that could happen to you was happening. They had gotten into the snacks you had prepared for a legitimate party tomorrow, were sitting on your furniture and watching TV, and you think you saw a few in your bedroom. But the worst part of all was the smell.
It seemed as if everywhere you looked there was a werewolf pooping, farting, or peeing. In the kitchen, there was a lycan peeing his pants while talking to his friend. The pee was running down his legs and forming a puddle on the floor that wouldsurely stain your grout yellow. Next to you was a black lycan who was repeatedly farting, filling the air next to you with the rancid smell of werewolf gas. And as you look over at the lycans on your couch, you see the one without shorts raise his tail, fart heavily, and then crap where he's sitting, ruining your couch. He doesn't seem to mind the fact that he's sitting in his own mess, and starts to encourage the lycan sitting next to him to do the same. Coming to your senses, you yell out "Don't do that !".
The lycan looks at you with a mischievous grin, and says "What? You mean this?".
He then hikes up a leg and rips a huge fart in your direction, earning a high-five from a friend next to him.
"Yes... that" You say quietly, knowing your efforts would be in vain.
"What's that? Can't quite hear you!" He farts again into the cushion, then doubles over slightly. You see him grin as a wet stain spreads across the front of his pants, and on to the couch. He raises his tail, and you see a brown mound start to bulge outwards. His friends are all watching, and are enjoying your distress. The brown mound in his pants keeps growing, the smell of manure eminating from it. A muffled, wet fart is heard through his pants, and more mush gushes out. Eventually, his supply runs out. He looks at you with a grin, and reaches back with a clawed hand to feel his handiwork. Satisfied, he leans backwards onto it, squishing all around his pants. You look at your ruined couch, and suddenly just stop caring. Jaded to the stinky devastation around you, you sit down on the couch and help yourself to some salsa. Whatever. Screw it all.
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