Just going through the architecture stage.
The people beneath it were running around, doing anything to avoid the onslaught of brick and mortar. I let out a cackle as a windowpane fell on an unsuspecting woman, who was loosely dressed and deserved it. A wall fell down on a werewolf. Some furniture slipped through the hole that had been the window and onto three young girls who glanced back once too many.
Jon walked over to the monitor. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” I said, not looking up from the screen.
Jon stared.
“I said to program flying butts, dude, not flying buttresses.”
“Really?” I said innocently. “I must’ve misheard.”
I’m no longer allowed to help them grief Second Life players.