Smoke gushed from every crack of the old gym on Lincoln Street, a lively high street full of passersby. These passersby were now at risk, as the smoke rolled out and the obvious flames threatened to roar across the city. The screeching siren, signalling the gym's desperation, could be heard from miles away. That's how Mr. Sexy knew to be on his way.
The shining symbol of all that is sexy ran heroically through the thick, toxic clouds. Coughing and unable to see, our sex god really didn't know what he was getting himself into. It was when, in a room of swirling smoke, a majestic strobe-like beam of light shone directly into our here's face, blinding him. His eyes squint, and a for a moment, his eyes were closed. But when they opened, what he saw was even more terrifying.
The last slithers of smoke had been slurped into the ventilators too quickly, the alarm had dozed off and before him stood an athletic young man: physically gifted, his tank top covered in sweat. Mr. Sexy gulped. "Funk Feet, what is this?" Our hero demanded to know the truth- burning a building wasn't his style..
He laughed, "I wanted to heat things up, play Firemen and Firetrucks. It was all make believe to get you over here," Mr. Sexy couldn't help feel flattered, "and now that you're here, and you're so obviously tired from being so sexy, so why don't you take a rest." Mr. Sexy was still as confused as hell... Rest?
He's lucky he is sexy because he sure isn't smart. It was a trap, and Funk Feet was about to make a stink. Our villain smirked, looked above our hero contently just as the rope snapped. A ton of used gym kit came crashing down on Mr. Sexy. Ripe, cheesy socks that are solid from dry sweat, browning, warm jockstraps that have nose-melting musk, reeking trainers of so many brands emit stinky wafts of a vinegary smell. There was even discarded tissues that had been used to catch running sweat. Underneath it all, Mr. Sexy was being sedated by the intense, fetid aromas. He was able to claw his way through the pile, getting sleepier and sleepier and the sweaty gym smells stole his energy.
He finally got his head out, but even then the air he breathed was pungent. He didn't want to sleep, but he was slipping deeper into a stink-induced coma. "Please," he whimpered, "pl- pl-" Eventually the words were too heavy in his mouth. Funk Feet walked over, smug, and squatted beside our hero.
"Sweaty dreams." Funk Feet kissed our hero on the cheek, giggled, and grabbed the nearest sock, just to place over our weak sex god's tortured nose and watching the cheesy smell drain the last of his fight. He passed out and his head fell into Funk Feet's hands...
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