“There are worse things than this,”
said Tyler, ever the optimist, even as they found themselves in what
might well have been the one situation where that statement didn't
hold true.
“Like what?” shot Sheila, intent on
calling him out, holding him accountable for the words coming out of
his mouth. He'd been getting away with his melodramatic nonsense for
too long, it was time for that to stop.
“I can't think of anything off the
top of my head,” he replied, more concerned with the situation at
hand—which was quite bad, indeed—than with finding examples that
would satisfy her curious fixation on evidence to support every
assertion, regardless of any mitigating circumstances, such as being
stuck in a position that may not have been the worst imaginable
technically speaking but was still neither the time nor place for
debate of this nature.
“Of course you can't, because you're
full of shit.” She delighted in the error of his ways, of his
words, of everything about him, even as her being right meant that
there were not, in fact, worse things than this and they were
therefore, to put it crudely but accurately, screwed in a big way.
“If we're going to be literal,” he
said, “I'm not full of shit. I took care of business a while ago.
So while the situation may be dire, at least I don't have to use the
facilities. Not that there are any here anyway.”
They both seemed surprised at the
scatological direction their conversation had turned. Perhaps in
times of extreme stress one's thoughts naturally turn to bodily
functions. Still, this was bad. Even she had to concede this might be
the worst thing, which would negate her objection to his original
assertion.
There was no escape.
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