Paul was sitting quietly in Chris' room, silently ruminating on the events that had recently transpired in the confines of Laci's bedroom. His odd sexual awakening had had a disturbing effect on him, causing him to spend less time thinking up ways to kill/torture/publicly humiliate Chris and more time trying to figure out how to make Chris fuck him. This was mostly Brendaniel's fault, and it was troublesome. Luckily, Mark English had an ideas.

"What if we tried relieving your naughty feelings elsewhere?" He suggested in his infuriatingly patronizing voice. "Then you could focus on your revenge."

"Excellent idea," chimed in psychicpebbles. "Anything to better concentrate and amplify the feelings of bitterness and resentment inside of you."

"But how?" asked Paul. "It's not like I can jerk off with my hooves. I'm not even flexible enough to reach my dick-"

"Watch your language." commanded Mark.

"My ding-donger," continued Paul. "Anyd even if I could, hooves aren't the closest approximation to llama vag."

Just then, Chris slid in with his patented chair roll from across the apartment after hitting Tom Sweeney with a milk jug and filming his response for internet views. Chris quickly uploaded the video to his computer, grabbed a sword that was leaning against the desk, and went off to pester his roommate once again, this time leaving his chair behind.

Paul looked at the chair for a while. The smooth, sensuous contours of the design, the soft, comforting fabric, and most of all, the enticing gap between the seat and the back of the chair.

"No fucking way."

"Why not?"

"THERE IS NO FUCKING WAY YOU ARE FUCKING A CHAIR PAUL," shouted psychicpebbles.

"THERE ARE LINES MANKIND WAS NOT MEANT TO CROSS, PAUL, AND THIS IS ONE OF THEM. IF YOU CONTINUE DOWN THIS PATH, DIVINE RETRIBUTION WILL RAIN DOWN FROM THE HEAVENS UNTIL NO MEMORY OF YOUR EXISTENCE REMAINS, NOT EVEN THE SLIGHTEST BIT OF DUST FROM THE ASHES OF YOUR CORPSE. SHOULD YOU COMMIT THIS ATROCITY, THIS REBELLION AGAINST GOD HIMSELF, THERE WILL BE NO ONE LEFT TO SAVE YOU, AND YOU WILL HAVE NO ONE TO BLAME BUT YOURSELF," ranted Stamper, as Paul's mind physically ached from the pure intensity of his rage.

"I say do it," suggested Brendaniel.

"Shut the fuck up, Brendan," snapped Mark, breaking his typically G-rated attitude.

"...Imma do it," said Paul.

Paul slowly approached the chair. It seemed to beckon to him, asking him to take her like a real man/llama. Paul felt a steady rising from his nether region, until finally full mast was achieved. He climbed up into the lap of the chair and places his member between the back of the chair and the seat. The air was thick with tension. Paul slowly started moving back and forth, releasing a small sigh as the unresolved sexual tension of the past few months was suddenly released.

"WHAT THE FUCK" shouted Chris as he suddenly walked into the room.

"OH SHIT" exclaimed Paul as he frantically backed out of the chair and began to run away.

"THAT'S MY FUCKIN CHAIR PAUL YOU CAN'T JUST DEFILE MY SACRED SYMBOL YOU FUCKWIT"

Paul frantically tried to evade Chris, tripping over a cable on the ground in the process, which gave a very noticeable tug. Falling to the ground, Paul saw the nearby lamp attached to the cord he had tripped over slowly begin to topple over right as Chris began to near him.

"I'LL FUCKIN KILL Y-"

Chris suddenly cut off as the lamp smashed into his skull, leaving a sizable gash near his right temple. Chris toppled to the ground (a short trip) and smacked his head into the corner of his desk in the process. Chris groaned once, weakly, then fell silent.

It was quiet for a bit as Paul took in what just happened. Psychicpebbles excitedly looked at the massive amount of blood that was now flowing from Chris' head, his sick, twisted mind reveling in his pain. Mark went to his happy place and sang silly songs to avoid looking at such a tragedy. Stamper was upset that Chris' blood wasn't blue because it disproved his theory that Chris was actually an alien sent to make the children of tomorrow kill themselves by encouraging them to drink bleach. Finally, Paul decided to take action.

Picking up the noose Chris had lying in wait in his closet, Paul unraveled the knot until it was just a rope. He then began to tie the rope around Chris' feet and hands until he was certain Chris couldn't get out in a million years, a tough task with his llama hooves, but he managed. He moved Chris to the corner of the room, where he slumped over against the wall. The wound was turning dark red, and the bleeding was starting to slow, so Paul was reasonably certain he would live.

Reasonably.

"Back to business," thought Paul as he slowly walked back over to the chair, which to him looked as though it was lying seductively in wait. Wasting no time, Paul jumped up and started humping furiously against the chair. It creaked as it rocked back and forth from Paul's movements. Paul's breaths began to quicken as he neared his climax. Suddenly, an interjection came from a small, injured, and very pissed off Puerto Rican man from the corner.

"What the actual fuck are you doing?" asked Chris, more subdued than last time (likely due to his traumatic brain injury).

"I'm fucking your chair, Chris, what's it look like I'm doing?" Paul replied breathlessly as he continued his thrusting movements.

"Well... stop it, then." Chris looked like he had a loss for words at the moment, due to a combination of cerebral discombobulation and the fucked up scenario occurring in front of him.

"No."

"Oh." Chris contemplated this as his head pounded in agony. He stood there with a simultaneously concerned, disgusted, and confused look on his face, as if he had just seen a man clip his toenails and then lick them. He remained silent and tried to ignore the both pain in his temples and the blood pouring down his forehead.

Meanwhile, Paul was close to finishing. His vinegar strokes began and he let out several audible moans as he climaxed.

"Oh FUCK!" He exclaimed as he unloaded directly between the seat and the back, which just so happened to be positioned right next to Chris' face.

This seemed to finally snap Chris out of his semi-conscious state. Now fully enraged and semi-erect, Chris easily tore out of the puny bonds that held him- it's not like a stuffed llama toy with no thumbs can tie very good knots- and grabbed Paul by the back of his neck.

"Get out of here you fuckin cunt, I hope I never see you again. And if I do see you again, I'll make sure that no one else can see- or- wait, what's the rest of that threat- oh, whatever. Fuck you," Chris concluded as he punted Paul from his front door into the street. He then went back inside to clean his chair and to drown his sorrows in an unhealthy amount of Snapple.

[Note: seriously Chris that much Snapple is not good for you- each bottle has ~41 grams of sugar, your ENTIRE DAILY RECOMMENDED ALLOWANCE, and you drink like 4 a day. It obviously hasn't affected your weight very much you fucking twig, but still, sugar + anxiety = high blood pressure = you fucking die from a heart attack at age 30. Drink some fruit smoothies or something. I'm sure Anthony Fantano can recommend some good, healthy, vegan drinks.]