Romans & histoires Funny Springtrap

Everyone of us screamed—including the bravest of boys. “Argh!” Travis stomped. “Too bad I picked the fake one!” He roared with laughter. He pitched the revolver to the wall like a baseball, and picked up his knapsack again. While the joy brought to him by his vile and villainous prank still stayed firm on his face, he walked back to his chair with the other chairs of the circle and sat himself between the two other guys who were totally traumatized and scared by what happened.

“Oh my god!” Domitus chuckles, and walks behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. “I got some things for your extracurricular activities,” he whispers in my ear, making me shiver as his hands move to cup my ass. Inside the drawer, there’s vibrators of varying sizes, something I think is called a butt plug, what looks like a riding crop, and handcuffs. “You…are you going to use all of those on me?”

However, he immediately crumpled his own face roughly. "Ughh. I still can't forget him, even though five years have passed. It feels like it can't be him. I've often misrecognized people. Damn it, all because Marko asked me to drink tonight." Leon grumbled to himself when he saw the figure of a woman riding on a battered moped. "Sorry, Nis. I can only take you on a crappy motorbike like this," said Adam during their journey. "It's okay, Adam. If you don't give me a deposit tonight, I'll spend more money to pay for a taxi," chuckled Nisa. Adam just smiled at his chatter. Adam's battered moped stopped at one of the Barbeque Chicken tent stalls.

Something heavy, unnatural. I obeyed instinctively, pivoting slightly to the left. Dorian and Bryan mirrored my movement without question, their trust absolute. A trap lay ahead—a snare woven between two trees, nearly invisible, designed to catch a foot or an ankle. The cord was taut, ready to tighten. I exhaled, fingers brushing against the Warrior’s tether in my mind, acknowledging the warning. I signaled with a flick of my wrist. Dorian leaped over the trap, Bryan rolled to the side, and I passed through, heart hammering, but unscathed.

She enjoyed flirting with passing truckers, and watching her lean out the window to talk to or yell at other motorists made Shamira grin. "Hey, can we stop and get a soda?" the bubbly young woman said. "I'm totally parched and would kill for a Diet Doctor Pepper." "Yes, I'm sure that flashing your tits at the guys in the Ford F-150 with a rebel flag sticker must have been exhausting." "Just helping highway safety by keeping guys awake," Bunny replied, leaning over and checking the security of the AA12 automatic shotgun she had strapped to the other side of her seat. When Shamira had suggested she ride "shotgun," Bunny had taken the suggestion seriously.

To prov‍e th‌at their trap was a joke,⁠ and that he was al‍ways two steps ahead. The trap had be‍en sprung‍. B‍ut the‍y hadn't caught the prey. The prey had come to admire the ba⁠it, and then vanish‌ed back into‌ the shadows, lea⁠ving beh‍ind a chi‍lling message: I see you. And you can't stop me⁠.

If it weren't for me, Andy wouldn't have to sleep in parks or contract such a terrible illness… But then again, why was Andy hanging out with them? Sunny then sent me another text: [Don't you want the truth? Check out this livestream and you'll understand.] I stared at the link I didn't recognize, but quickly tapped on it with a trembling finger before I knew it. [Welcome to the World of Pranks! Our current prankster is Andy Lawson, and his victim is Jane Smith!] There was a small line underneath: [One month left!]

The balloon calmly floated, painfully slowly, and the weight bumped a button, which set off a goddamn model train. Holy shit this was elaborate. The model train had a little razor blade on it, which cut another string, making another can roll onto an old school mouse trap, triggering it, and it released a... a crossbow?! It fired a bolt into the back of the barn, through a tiny hole in a huge tarp. I didn't see the triggers or mechanisms from there, but there were some very loud thumps. Was that a motor?

It had a silicone face painted with a terrifyingly realistic stare, and its body was a solid block of C4 explosive clay (inert, but heavy). Attached to the dummy’s chest was a small digital screen. It lit up red. HELLO, GENTLEMEN. A robotic voice emanated from the stroller’s speakers. "You have stolen a tactical decoy. Your location is being tracked by three satellites. The doors of this vehicle have been remotely locked. Please remain seated until your security audit is complete." "It's a trap!" Sal shrieked, clawing at the door handle. It wouldn't budge. "Let me out!"

One of the younger men from the bus—freckled, nervous, the one who’d almost tripped in the mirror hallway back in the tower—was standing in front of a stall with a pyramid of tin cans. The attendant there was an animatronic carnie with a painted grin and eyes that had been replaced with spinning spirals. Its jaw clacked open and closed out of rhythm with its words. The sign above the cans glowed: KNOCK THEM DOWN GAIN A WEAPON LOSE… SOMETHING ELSE The kid hefted a heavy metal rod in one hand, grinning wide, chest heaving like he’d just run a race. At his feet, all the cans lay scattered, some dented, some leaking a slow trail of black sand.