![IMG-PHOTO-ART--1063136946.jpg](https://images.hive.blog/DQmQ6BrdjdD4afweJYUJW3zV38mR18iCuxzmLMi5cEqV5wq/IMG-PHOTO-ART--1063136946.jpg)

*Hi, I'm here to pick up my son's bag. I called earlier.*

I smiled at the receptionist of the Nursery. Which is like kindergarten but in English.

The lady manning the reception desk tipped her large glasses down with a finger and sternly peered at me with a questioning eye. 

*And who, precisely, is your 'son?'*

She barked, the words seeming to snort from her rather flared nostrils. 

I smiled my most winning smile. Her face was all angles and sharp lines with a smear of red lipstick like a naked cat that had been run over. I took a fancy to her immediately.

I leaned on the little windowsill and smiled handsomely. 

*The Little Boom? He is five. Comes in Tue-Fri?*

*Miss Deadcatface* frowned and tapped something on a computer to the side. 

Said computer appeared to give her an answer she didn't like and she turned to me with a haughty sniff.

*And who, precisely, might 'you' be?*

The corner of her lip twitched a little as if she had just beaten me at strip poker and in the final reveal found my *Peeping Jeebus* to be wanting.

*Well, if he is my son then I would be his Dad.*

Despite her attitude I tried to remain breezy and light as regardless of what they said, kicking a table over and shouting *HULK SMASH* was most definitely not the most efficient way of getting what you want in these situations. 

*Miss Deadcatface* froze in place for several seconds before visibly relaxing and smiling even further than she had dared twitch before.

*And who would be 'his dad...?'*

Her smile grew to the point that I started to worry her head was going to fall open like a counterfeit Gucci bag bought in an Italian market.

*Eh, me. Obviously.*

On the other hand, my grin was withering under the aggressive deadpan onslaught of *Miss Deadcatface.* Lord knows how effective my penis would be as a sundial if we were ever stranded in a desert together and needed to know the time.

*Miss Deadcatface* practically purred with pleasure. She magicked a pen from somewhere and gave the end a little chew before smirking smugly and leaning closer to the hole in the perspex that all public servants hide behind these days.

*And your '__name__' is...?*

She chuckled happily, the results of the unspoken game we had commenced leaning in her favour.

*Ah. My name, that's what you mean.*

Now it made sense. Swiftly I told her my name and waited expectantly. 

She bade me wait a moment and clip-clopped away on some rather splendid heels. My persistent worries over *desert sundialing* abated somewhat.

She returned very quickly, smiling and holding out a grey backpack decorated with pictures of diggers on it. 

*That's the one! Oh, thank you very much. He was bereft without it.*

I reached up to the perspex porthole for her to pass the bag over.

*Miss Deadcatface* frowned at me. 

*What's in it?*

She snarked, tapping her fingers impatiently on the top of the bag.

*I beg your pardon?*

I clenched my fists and started to mentally reassess the benefits of *HULK SMASHING* the place up. 

*Just so we can be sure that it is definitely your bag, or at least, your 'son's' bag...*

Her smile as she said this was as sweet as the rotting stench of a four-day-old corpse.

I took a big deep breath and let my own biggest and best smile stretch out all over my face. 

*What is in it? Well, among other things there is a big fat toy shit that makes farting noises when you squeeze it.*

*Wh.. um? What?*

Now it was my turn to lean close and leer like a crocodile on crystal meth.

*Miss Deadcatface* opened the bag's zip a little before slamming it shut and pushing it through the perspex porthole.

*Ok, take it. Thank you.*

She barked, thrusting the bag at me.

*What, don't you want to squeeze it?*

I giggled like a supervillain as I took the bag and pulled the toy shit out of it.

*No, I do not think so.*

*Miss Deadcatface* regained her snark.

I chortled, held the toy shit up to the porthole and squeezed.

PAAARRRP. 

Magic. Toy shits are the best.