“Alright Steph, I got the stuff you asked for. You must be making a ton of omelettes or something. And I guess after you’re done eating all of ’em you’re gonna be having a fun time cause this is a ton of toilet paper.”
“Klay you idiot those eggs ain’t for eating. And that TP sure as hell ain’t for my heinie. We gonna go over to Draymond’s place and pay him a special visit.”
“So Draymond gets to eat the omelettes?”
“God damn it. No! How deprived of a child were you? We gonna throw these eggs at his house and put the toilet paper in his trees. Man, he’s gonna be so pissed when he sees what happened!”
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“You know Steph I can’t see hardly anything with this ski mask on.”
“Shut up. You got the TP? Here we go.”
“Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!”
“Klay be quiet. And you gotta unwrap it before you throw it. I swear you think like a retard sometimes. Observe the master at work.”
A bright white streamer sailed high in the air, entangling itself with the majestic oak that occupied center stage on the lawn. Soon the air was filled with such projectiles, and soon the carefully cultivated arboretum of Draymond Green was covered in Charmin. The mischievous duo was not done, however, and shortly the sound of muffled cracks could be heard as the eggs were launched at the Green residence’s windows and siding. Yolk and albumen coated the stately manor. In the distance, the sound of sirens could be heard.
“Oh damn man, it’s the pigs! Come on Klay, let’s get outta here.”
And with that Stephen Curry ran off, cackling, down the street. Klay Thompson looked sadly at the now ruined house.
“I’m so sorry.”
And with that, he, too, ran off into the night.