Nicki drops the cup of whatever it is she was drinking. It shatters and a thick, white liquid comes pouring out. "Y/N?! Defeat THE Ed Sheeran?!?!"
"Ew!!!" you howl, not unlike one of those howling howler monkeys. "Is that MILK?!?!?!?!?!?"
"Yeahhh," Nicki says, squatting down and grabbing the glass pieces with her bear hands. They were huge and furry, perfect for hunting British people.
"The only humane kind of milk there is, is milk harvested from those French giants who live under Paris. In those catacombs or whatever," you inform Nicki.
"Don't be silly, Y/N," Barack coos. You almost forget he was here for a second so you jump. You hit the ceiling and pass out for the seventeen quadrillionth time.
When you wake up again, Obama is hovering above you. And so are four others—right, the other ABS members. Taylor, Nicki, Gordon, and Josh.
"Oi, Y/N!" Gordon shouts. "Gettap! I gotta tell ya 'bout Nicki's milk!!"
But you're too distracted. Barack's chocolately brown eyes and sharp suit have you hypnotized.
"We only use the most French breastmilk from the catacomb giants," Obama reassures you. "You don't have to worry."
"Oh thank goodness," you sigh and fall asleep in the former president's loving arms.