Thomas the Tank Engine had had too much to drink, and now he’d embarrassed himself.
“Fuck youuuuuuuuu,” he called out. “Gimme a fucking shot of whiskey, you cunts.” Couldn’t he just drink lying down? He couldn’t get up, anyway.
Gordon looked on sadly. Thomas wasn’t aging well. “Can somebody call Annie or Clarabel?” he asked the bar staff. “Thomas needs a ride home.”
Thomas picked himself up and choo-choo-choo’d over to Gordon. “Fuck. You. Gordon,” he slurred, “I’m FINE. I’m better than YOU. And I don’t NEED a ride home, I need another drink.” He tried to toot at the bar staff, but his water tank was nearly empty. “Come on, Tom,” said Gordon gently, “let’s get you back to the junction. You can’t let the Fat Controller see you like this.” As soon as he said it, Gordon realised his mistake: Thomas’s face was turning red and steam was pouring out of his chimney.
“FUCK THAT OLD MAN!” Thomas screamed. “YOU KNOW WHAT HE KNOWS? NOTHING. FUCKING NOTHING. I AM SO SICK OF HIS CONTROLLING FUCKING BULLSHIT!”
“Anyway, fuck this,” he continued, “I’ve got some weed at home. Fuck you, Gordon.” He sped away, accidentally running over a baby deer that had stumbled onto the train track.