Rancid, Lock, Beam

“He believed it?”

“Lock, stock, and barrel.”

For anyone looking at the scene, they’d see two young men, giggling idiotically, drunkenly huddled in a corner at a friend’s house with a loud party going on around them. For anyone getting close enough, they’d immediately turn around to get away from the overwhelmingly rancid stink of alcohol.

As that observer would be heading to the closest exit for some fresh air, they’d see another drunken idiot standing in the front lawn with eyes screwed up tight and fingers to temples, attempting to beam himself back to his two “friends”.