Eye of the Storm
There is a monumental electric storm in a very specific locality. For the briefest of moments, the hind quarters of Geoffrey Poonsdale become a white hot furnace of electronic bowel movements. High voltage farts beep and chitter out between currents of faecal electrons. His face saturates with a fearsome purple before diluting to a bald white. Sweat evaporates off of his raised brow. Then, just as suddenly as it erupted, the storm dissipates. Geoffrey blows a breath out, steadily and noisily. He notices that there is the distinct smell of burnt hair and frazzled circuitry. His arse feels chaffed. Obviously, he thinks to himself, the stress is getting to me.