The only times that Hamish would exit from his home of ornaments would be the times when he would explore the streets. Really, he was stripping them apart, in search of any lady who came off as an interesting soul to Hamish. They were to be independent no more.
Snarling and snarky, Hamish would mutter jokes and pick up lines to these women as if he had enrolled in a career as a salesman. Hamish had never had a proper career in his entire time on Earth. It was like he had wished himself to hell straight away, never wanting to rinse off his sins. He went in for it.
As Hamish was chewing his suspicious - sounding gum, a lady became shot on the pavement. She appeared to be Scottish, but didn't actually enjoy the haggis in the pocket Hamish held in his jagged jeans. His sublime tears wafted out the smell in an extremely strong way.
Anyway, this lady didn't follow the Scottish stereotype of absolutely adoring the stomach of a wee sheep, aye. This lady didn't enjoy that, but she did want to get to know Hamish.
The pair passed Mona Lisa street art, pigeons on the floor, the names of couples on walls and roughly ten steps before they reached the house of Hamish.
Quite frankly, this was the house of a hoarder. It was just that this junk had been very cunningly arranged in a way to cause arousal.
With the leap of Jenner (the name of the lady) into Hamish, the street snatch had been a success. Never did Jenner get the offer of a lift home.
Never did Jenner get to go back there herself.
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Swiss Army Kiss
HorrorDon't be fooled by the keen and calming attitude of Hamish in the wreckage of rooms. All that ever really occupied his time was dragging in women for their deep, convincing kiss. In his mouth, Hamish always held a grubby, sharp pocket knife. He rem...
