Intense
Jonothon Starsmore furnaceface
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Room 408, Tuesday Evening
Well, Jono had made good on Layla's first prediction on the radio last night. He'd handled that 70% chance of emo with a stunning sort of talent that made most modern alternative bands look like merry little puppy dogs.

That 'chance of pudding' thing, on the other hand, was the reason he'd stayed in all day. No, he wasn't going to risk the possibility of getting drenched in pudding. The last thing he needed was to have to drag himself to the showers in an attempt at clandestine hygiene so that nobody caught a glance at the gaping hole in him.

Of course, Fandom had different ideas. It always did, didn't it?

And that was why, quite out of nowhere, a big glop of chocolate pudding appeared in mid-air and spilled down on top of Jono's head.

//I hate this bloody island.//

It could have been worse. The British did have a truly unique sense of the meaning of the word 'pudding,' after all.

[[There was no way I could let a whole day get by without making good on that radio broadcast. Open door, cranky Jono, hurrah!]]