Ms. Winkle isn’t exactly fighting for her life, but it’s clear that she wants the pants to stay on. You still don’t want to call anyone outside attention to what’s going on here, and you think that since you’re not affected by the chocolate chips, you’ll be able to reason with them clearly. After all, you’re not asking them to stop, just abide by the rules.
So, you buck up, and walk over to where they all are. By this time, the guys have caught on to what Francis is doing, and have taken their shirts of and are covered in chocolate.
“Excuse me gentlemen, it seems like you guys are having a lot of fun, but it really seems like Ms. Winkle would like to keep her pants on. Things seems to have gone really nicely so far, why don’t we just keep it mutual, and not get all rape-y?”
As you say this, all five of the guys look at you without actually ceasing licking Ms. Winkle. Now that you’re closer, a couple of things become clear to you. First, and most importantly, Francis, the biggest of the five, is easily 6’2, and probably 280 lbs. The other four guys aren’t as big, but each of them could easily pin you with one hand. Second, from the expressions on their faces, you can see clearly they only have one phrase in their thought bubbles. “Taste you, taste me,” is what they’re thinking, to the exclusion of all else. Third, Ms. Winkle, for whatever reason, has two distinct thoughts visible on her face. One is the same as the guys, and the other is “Help!”
Having committed to your course of action, and encouraged by the plea on Ms. Winkle’s face, you jump in to the fray, and get in between Francis and Ms. Winkle with your arms outstretched to try to give you both space. As soon as you do that, you can feel Ms. Winkle’s hands on your sides over your tank top and feel her heavy breathing on your upper back. All five guys have stood back a step, and for a moment you feel like they’ve gotten the hint, and might turn around to go.
Then you feel Ms. Winkle’s tongue on your shoulder, and you look around at the guys, and you can only see four of them. You turn to look for the last one, and then you feel the hot trickle of what you can only assume is melted butter on your head, and before you know it, there is what has to be a gallon of butter splashing on your shoulders and running quickly down both sides of your body.
At this point, you can’t help but think of that scene from practically every zombie movie ever made. Where the bravest side character, who feels like he/she is momentarily safe, turns on a light, or steps through a door, or turns around in a hallways, only to discover that they’re surrounded by zombie, and is instantly torn to shreds in the most gory fashion possible.
“That’s roughly how this is going to go,” you say with as much bravado as you can muster.
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