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Mr Armadale

They say you enjoy your Adidas Snap Pants for two days: the day you buy them and the day they get burnt in a meth lab explosion. Tyrone knows the ups and downs of Snap Pant ownership better than most. His latest pair were given to him on fathers day by one of his daughters, “Prin’cess” or maybe it was “Mercedes”, fuck, Tyrone doesn’t know, definitely one of em though. “Gotta stop wetting me dick in Armadale slurries, ay”, he muses to himself as he heads to his favourite payphone.

Tyrone receives some unfavourable news from his dealer. Until Tyrone pays for the last 8 Ball he won’t be getting any more rock on tick. Just as Michelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling, Tyrone’s psychotic behaviour in the payphone is masterful. Each slam of the phone and rapid-fire profanity burst is executed perfectly. The payphone is his canvas and going troppo is his art form. The vandalism has left Tyrone feeling hungry. It’s Hungry Jacks time.

Tyrone jump on his Peewee motorcycle. The chariot of the disadvantaged. He burns it down to Hungry Jacks without a shirt on, his Snap Pants flap proudly in the breeze. He walks into Hungry Jacks. “Aw shit”. One of his baby’s mummas is sitting at a table with two of his youngest (2 & 3 years old). “Tyrone you dog, you better buy the kids a Bacon Deluxe to share”. Tyrone’s day just went from bad to worse, but he knows his responsibility as a deadbeat Armadale parent. Having one less Bacon Deluxe in his stomach has made Tyrone angry. Regardless, there are tons of parents that wouldn’t have been so nurturing and selfless, ay.

Tyrone heads home to puff on his can bong. By pure chance, he runs into his old mate. “Oi Tyrone, we’re gonna go and ram this Hyundai into an ATM, wanna join?”. The forecast of Tyrone’s day just changed: methy with a chance of incarceration.

Viva la Armadale.