Andy got up from the toilet seat and performed the usual ritual. When he looked down, the bowl was a deep blood red. Andy dry wretched. He was too young to die. Too young for cancer.
They stumbled into a West End strip club. “Man up boys,” shouted the best man, “let’s get the beers in.” The lads puffed out their chests and cheered. The stag was quiet.
Chris had heard of this thing called Guerilla Gardening they did in London. Illegally planting flowers around the city. It sounded daring and romantic. Chris had just read No Logo by Noami Klein.