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Duncan stepped back to admire his work, shaking the paint can again and wondering what to add next. Maybe a giant cock, or the word FUCKING above FAGGOTS. It was hard to be appropriately creative when he was so angry about the way he'd been treated earlier that day.

"What the fucking fuck is this shit?"

Duncan's feet tangled up in the straps of his backpack as he tried to whirl and run, sending him cashing to the floor, spray paint can flying from his grip. Almost immediately strong arms were pinning him to the floor, a knee in the middle of his back and a foot on the side of his face. He was trapped!

"Get offa me!" he growled, struggling.

Strong hands hauled Duncan roughly to his feet. He found himself surrounded by a group of angry-looking and powerfully-built men around his own age. He recognized most of them from the theater department's tech crew, particularly Alan, their leader. The two holding him – a large black guy and a bearded shorter guy – held his arms tightly.

"What the fuck?" Alan asked. He jabbed a rough finger at Duncan's chest. "What the fuck are you doing, you asshole? Fucking up our set?"

"Hey, chill out!" Duncan glanced around at the angry faces surrounding him. Unlike the wussy little fairy actors, the tech crew was made up of rugged looking manly men, the sort who wore flannel shirts year round and slung tool belts low over their hips. They looked tough and masculine - Duncan's kind of guys. Maybe he could appeal to their sense of manliness. "Look, I know you guys work hard on this shit, but I'm not pissed at you, I'm just pissed at those faggot actors."

"Faggot actors?"

"Yeah, those pussy-ass sissy boy actors. God I hate them."

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