Jamshed sat crouched above a small hole that featured a unique gathering of bubbling liquid decorated by shaped masses of brown, and dead twigs. He was trying to let it rip. One! … Nothing.
Two!… Nothing again
THREE! …“plop”, there it came, all at once.
He tore the back of his dirty traditional dress and smeared his rear with a grunt. His crouching was beginning to get uncomfortable.
He rose, usually, he would wash his hands, but today was different. Today he wanted his victims to have something special.
He could hear the muffled squeals of the girls outside. He grinned.
It was time to have fun.
