Hammered

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to focus on being calm through the thin mist of a hangover.

It was made difficult by the Good Lady and her Doula friend Olette squawking and flapping their wings furiously at a pile of sticks out in the garden.

Their screeching became louder as the hauled the sticks into the kitchen.

Fucking hell, what were they doing?? Surely they weren't going to attempt to build a nest? I hoped not as I am fairly sure Olette would line the fucker with her pubic hair.

I shuddered at the thought of such rank vagination.

I hauled myself up from the seat and walked over to peer at the twiggy mess they were crouched over.

It was then I saw the hammer.

Sweet jeebus!? What were they doing with a hammer? Didn't they know what could happen?

Erm. What's going on with the hammer?

I asked carefully in case Olette flew at me in a rage of feathers and squawking.

We are using it to hammer with.

Replied Olette, her dark eyes piercing me as if she was thinking of turning me upside down, sticking a bunch of the twigs up my arse and telling her friends she had made a candle.

You can't hammer twigs?

I said somewhat doubtfully.

This time they both looked up at me. The Good Lady laughed in that way of women who's menfolk tell them what they can and cannot hammer.

Go back to your man-chair, Daddy-Bear. We'll be finished soon.

I lifted a hand feebly as if to challenge them further but at that moment Olette licked her lips and at the sight, my testicles painfully attempted to haul themselves into my lower abdomen.

Alright then, try not to die using it.

I said as cheerfully as I could.

Olette waved sarcastically with the hammer and nearly knocked herself out.

I chuckled then ran before they decided that I was starting to look like a nail.