Got to stay there. 'Shirt, schmirt, who gives a shit?' Jonesy wants to know. In front of his bulging, frightened eyes, a constellation of bumps appeared in the wood. He could lay them down on the bathroom floor, walk over them, and get a better look into the tub.
They've had some tough scrambles already. He raised one hand, made a gun of his thumb and forefinger, and dropped his thumb three times. Moss or maybe fungus. 'Okay,' he says.
Join the newsletter to receive news, updates, new products and freebies in your inbox.