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Berating, yelling, screaming; another rich little punk screaming their head off that you aren't as good as they are. It's just like...
Your hands fly up to the Aristocrats throat, you squeeze, its words dying in its mouth. It chokes.
<span class="mu-g">"Huh?! You think you're better then me, huh?! You better then me now!? Born better then me, you know better?! Yeah, I was born in a gutter, so what? Why does that make you better then me? I've worked every day of my life- what have you ever worked for!? WHOSE BETTER NOW! SAY IT AGAIN! GO ON! SAY IT!!!"</span>
The Aristocrats nailless fingers, push against your muscled arms, unable to scratch, too weak to escape your grip. You shake, its feeble neck squeezed like a bit of plastic tubing, unable to force itself open for life giving air. It begins to go limp, its arms fall to its side and its chokes subside.
