Malcolm jumped off Fatman and landed with a thud. A terrible arm pit slash swamp crypt odour had stuck to his hair and for a second Malc contemplated shaving it all off with a nearby cheese grater.

But there would be time for that later. Fatman was taking a good peer over the couch now and in seconds he’d find Malcolm’s hot girlfriend. Malc couldn’t let that happen. A stinging pain issued itself from the seat of his pants and Malcolm came to the sudden realisation the hot iron was still on his person.

Fatman was half a blueberry donut from peering all the way over the couch so Malcolm sprang. Executing an athletic half pike summersault he landed atop the obesity giant, retrieved the hot iron from his pants rear section and gave one of Fatman’s chins a solid branding.

It was his 43rd chin and it was particularly sensitive.

Fatman tipped to the floor and began wailing like a broiled donkey.

“Thank goodness for that.” Said Malc and put his hot inflatable girlfriend back in the closet.