True Stories from the Apartment of Somewhat Unpleasant Horrors

Strange happenings in the apartment lately. My roommate (who, at least for the moment and for no apparent reason, shall be known as Mr. Kurva), after a miraculous recovery from death (and because of this shall now be known as Mr. Kurva the Magical Death-Defying Miracle Man), brought home a deer some days ago. The deer, named Rudolphe (also called, sometimes, the Magical Mystery Deer of Power) was discovered wandering the streets of Oslo, perhaps prostituting itself, and seemed to enjoy life on the 8th floor. This, of course, is interesting, as scientists normally consider deer quite afraid of heights. He wandered around the apartment, cutely nibbling our socks (which are now full of holes), and generally being very charming. Anyway, since we both are animal lovers, and since Rudolphe was, at times, very annoying (and despite it not being christmas yet), we killed, cooked and ate him (with cabbage and black peppers, obviously). It was delicious.

Murder is quickly becoming the staple of this collective. Luckily, we have the big cellar, so it shouldn't be a problem. Actually, Mr. Kurva mumbled something about "army of zombies", but that might just have been posttraumatic resurrectionconfusion-syndrome, very common in people coming back from the dead. You know, if anything interesting happens, you'll be the first to know about it. Lucky bastards, you. One for the road, word combo of the day:
Candy-coloured cock.