Scratching Nuns are Not Polite

fiction (crappy)
She never wanted to be trapped in an elevator with a 300 pound man who (apparently) had just gotten through with a rigorous workout and who (apparently) didn't utilize the shower in the locker room afterward. She also never wanted to be stuck on an elevator with a pack of decrepit old nuns who has a propensity for itching random places on their warped little bodies. She especially never had the yearning to be stuck on an elevator with the creepy guy who lives in the apartment four doors down who smelled of old fish and had the muddled appearance of Alf and Blanch from The Golden Girls. But there she was. She eyed the lit up buttons with scorn. They taunted her. They indicated that soon they should be approaching floor number four when in fact they were stuck in a state of oblivion between floors one and two. She was convinced the fat guy caused them all to outweigh the maximum weight capacity that was legally required to be posted in every elevator ever created.

The fat man began to stretch. He lifted his sausage arms over his head, further revealing the large pools of sweat that had accumulated in his armpit region. His dingy purple headband dripped with perspiration, and she had to shuffle to the left to avoid it hitting her shoe. Fat Man moaned slightly as he attempted to touch his fingers to his toes, and she had to resist the urge to throw up at the sight of his half-naked ass bulging up from his too-tight running shorts.

The nuns were talking quietly to themselves, while itching loudly almost in perfect unison. She inadvertently overheard a little of their conversation, catching a few words here (popcorn, scaffolding, nunchucks) and a few words there (passion, Klingon, picnic). She didn't care to know too much about the secret lives of the chronically itchy nuns.