Quoted By:
There are tents. There are naked guys with spears.
Turbo Fuckboi: …you FUCKING with me?!
The bus stops by two gigantic black motherfuckers wrestling next to a pond. Howling, one is sent flying into it, making a huge splash. The other, left sweating, emits gutural, intermittent screams surely meant to thank his ancestors. Still standing by the exit, the perfect fuckboi’s jaw is gaping.
Turbo Fuckboi: …I’m SO not going there. Fuck this shit, I’m out.
Normal Salaryman: Wait! Don’t stay in the bus now. Go and take your chance.
Turbo Fuckboi: Huh? You talking shit, old man?
Suddenly behind the pseudo pop idol, the driver simply kicks his ass out of the bus; the fuckboi lands flat on his face. Right; he’s going against the rumor.
Turbo Fuckboi: Let me in, asshole!
But the driver won’t budge. He can’t. Uwasas are forced to adhere to their rumor, to enforce it no matter what. It’s kinda confusing, now that you think of it. An Uwasa is the guardian of a Rumor, a Rumor is a rumor made real, the rumor is the content of a Rumor… or something like that.
Turbo Fuckboi: Fine, whatever! This guy’s not gonna eat me or something, is he?
The driver doesn’t respond. The Osakan Adonis sighs and heads towards Africa’s very best. They talk, or at least try to. Then they wrestle; your best bet is then sent flying to the pond. More guttural screams. Drenched, this time in actual water, the fuckboi steps back into the bus- looking eerily dejected.
Turbo Fuckboi: …you know what? I just realized… I’d love to be as careless as that guy.
With his pretty clothes leaking, he simply walks through the wagon and sits in silence.
