some type of adult girl

reallyreallyreallytrying:

“Get the fuck off my bike, cunts,” Tintin shouted, then revved it like a motherfucker. Thompson and Thomson went flying off and landed in the gutter like the itinerant tramps they looked and, in essence, were. As a pair of police detectives, it was embarrassing how they’d spent years and years chasing a boy reporter around the world, trying to catch up as he solved crimes and, occasionally, trying to apprehend him for reasons that were never that clear. You’d think after the first couple of times they’d have realised he was a good guy.

“Woah! Woah!” Fuck. It was Snowy: Thomson was still holding on to him. Tintin wheeled the bike around. “Give me my fucking dog, asshole!” he shouted over the roar of the engine. 

“I am regretfully unable to do that!” Thomson replied. “To be precise, to do that, we are unable to regret!” Thompson added. What the fuck did that even mean? Was he retarded? 

“Uh, right,” Tintin said and grabbed Snowy. “Hey, just wondering how it is that you guys always end up looking like raggedy hobos when I can keep my knickerbockers tucked into my socks the whole damn time?”

“Uh, um, er…” said Thomson, and obviously Thompson said “To be precise, er, um, uh.” Tintin laughed at them and rode off on his motorbike. It was good to be the king.

(via reallyreallyreallytrying)