Three Isn't a Crowd but They Can be Loud

Trio of Doom

"That can't be right."

"That's because it's supposed to be on the left!" She spat, her brown lock of short hair bouncing as she become erratic for a moment. Her hands were covered in grease, seemed like fixing an engine was not as easy as fixing a computer—her expertise and profession.

"Ey, give me a break here. Why don't you let him help?" Anton pointed at an aproned black-haired muscular tall man by a grill with hotdogs on plate on one hand and a tong on the other. "And for the food's sake! Wear some shirt, man!"

"That's not what you told me last night." Greg sheepishly smiled at the poker-faced Anton. Anton was slim and a man whose height was only a few inches after the average. He wasn't as tall as Greg but he could just about reach a street lamp with an effortless jump if he just about wishes. But he wouldn't, that would be too much for his limp body to accomplish. A normal dilemma for an artist such as himself, if he does so admit.

"Again, why are you not helping us?!"

"Because he's a cook!" Clarisse shouted, pulling Anton by the arm, getting his attention back to the barely surviving white van.

"He doesn't have to cook now!! Besides, what kind of cook cooks half-naked?!!"

"The one on his day off," Greg wittily chimed.
Clarisse sighed for the last time.

Be in a polyamorous relationship they say, it'll be fun they say.