"Alright, who the fuck was that?" Larry says.
Edge looks at him with a confused look, "What are you talking about?"
Larry puts a finger over his nose "That was fucking rank!"
"Oh fuck, I can smell it now," Bono says, wrinkling up his face.
The three men look at Adam who is testing the sound of his bass. He looks up, "What...?"
"Did you just fart?" Larry asks with his semi-permanent scowl.
"No?"
Edge raises an eyebrow.
"It's usually you!" Bono says, covering his nose with his jacket.
"Is not!"
"Is too!"
"Is not!"
"Is too!"
"Stop acting like three year olds!" Larry yells, tossing a drumstick at Bono, hitting him square on the head.
"OW, FUCK!" Bono groans, rubbing the back of his head.
Larry chuckles a little, a smirk on his face.
"You were the one who had beans last night anyway, Larry!" Bono says.
"You had spicy tacos," Larry replies
"It wasn't me! It was probably Edge!"
"Not me. If it was me I would confess."
"You would not," Adam says with a small laugh, "You're too embarrassed about 'passing gas' to confess."
"Who's to say it didn't come from your British ass?" Edge says with a smirk.
"My ass is as British as yours is Welsh."
"Oh fuck off, Larry smelt it first anyway."
"True," Adam says, looking over to Larry, "He who smelt it, delt it."
"He who denied it, refried it," Larry says with a smirk.
"He who accuses, blew the fuses," Bono says, joining in.
"He who refuted it, tooted it," Adam responds.
"He who rhymed it, crimed it," Edge says.
"Welsh Arse," Adam murmurs.
Paul walks out from under the stage, "Sorry guys, I was the tooter."