Heron Lake Plateau show me your peepis

She squirmed and he continued to struggle beneath her. Sure she was tiny, but those Blackthorns were heavy motherfuckers with thick skulls and — okay, he couldn't think of any insults right now because breathing was hard, but you get the idea. There was Clover, sitting pretty atop her bloody throne, and Screech sputtering for breath beneath her. The uproar of her shouting was curtailed when she finally slogged off of him—and then in the midst of the briefest silence ever, there came a loud whoopie cushion-esque sound.

What was worse than that, was the smell. Nothing could have prepared Screech for the noxious cloud of fumes that emanated from the Blackthorn's tainted behind; it was worse than anything he'd ever encountered before (even worse than Tywyll's eau-de-fish-gut perfume from earlier in the day). Soon enough Screech's gaze was hazy with a film of tears, and he was recoiling hard against the spring shoots growing beneath his crumpled body. He pushed at Clover as she moved away from him (inadvertently smacking her right in the face with a flailing paw as she about-faced to spew some garbage at him).

He struggled to roll himself away from her, struggled more to get to his paws, and gasped for air despite the thick cloud that seemed to permeate everything. Screech knew she'd done it on purpose — some kind of biological warfare tactic to distract him from the way she'd fucked up his patrol. But he could barely breathe let alone retort in any useful or harmful manner. After a few seconds the air began to clear but Clover was still making a fucking racket -- and it devolved in to something about hating Towhee and being alone and rejection and -- truth? What the fuck did this twatwaffle know about truth?

It was Screech's turn to stand tall and face his enemy. It had been a coyote up until now, but he could see that the coyote had been a catalyst to force some kind of confrontation; he wondered if maybe Clover or one of the other stupid fucking Blackthorns had baited that coyote in to the territory just to fuck with him — but whatever, he was opening his mouth now, which could only mean:

You fucking idiot. I was chasin' that coyote away from your little brothers and sisters. It came right up to the fuckin' den! I needed your help and you fuckin' let me down, but what should I expect from a piece of trash like you. Who even are you? Okay, he was a little bit riled up and not making much sense, but to be fair neither was she. He reeled it in a breath or two, pacing and glaring daggers, What the fuck are you even talking about? Towhee and I are fine. Whose - whose being rejected? I live here, you twat. Come on, if you're going to insult me you gotta be better than that. He had no idea what she was going on about but maybe this would force her to stop and think, or just give up and leave.

Running all-out like that and failing really spoiled the mood.