Screeeet. My nails lacerate his bronze-polished flamingo. He wouldn’t get a pink one; instead, he bought a metal one so tough it could torpedo a riot-proof building. My nails are bleeding.
Sploosh. Wet pasta lambastes the floor. I repainted the kitchen “spaghetti sauce red.” One more meal of his lasagna and I’ll need my stomach pumped for toxins.
Scruunch. The sound his cranium would make if I pestle it to dust as I’d like to. He earned worse treatment after running over my sister’s cat, but my arrest warrant for the last guy caught up with the local police station.
Feedback is welcome (and appreciated)!