There was another one sliding along the hem of his trunks, leaving a sticky snail-trail around his thigh while it tried to find a spot to wriggle inside. By the time Michael had peeled it off himself, he had one in his goddamn hair, investigating the possiblility of fucking his ear, and one sliming its way around his throat.
"Come on, ref!" he snapped, which was a goddamn mistake because one of the tentacles found his mouth. The ref just stared at him with big, black eyes the size of goose eggs. Maybe he didn't know about five counts, what with only having three fingers.
Bam Bam, bless his heart, finally pulled himself together enough to come save him. He'd spent the last half minute standing gormlessly in the corner, blushing up to his ears and with a hard on to give the cheap seats an eyeful, and Michael hadn't been sure there was enough blood left over to run his damn brain.
Of course now the referee remembered all about rules and disqualifications. His be-tentacled little buddy there could do all the hair-pulling, choke-holding, and Freebird-goosing he wanted, but as soon as the Freebirds wanted to get their own back, no, sir, we're enforcing the rules.
Well, that shit would not fly.
"Buddy!" he hollered, as soon as Bam Bam, blushing even redder than before, had slid the tendril out of his mouth. "Fuck this chickenshit gig, let's go!"
Fifteen minutes of tentacle-wrangling, carapice-stomping, probe-dodging riot later, Michael and his boys were out the bunker door and making a break for their rental car.
"I don't care how good of a payoff man you heard London is," he fumed, "this is the last fuckin' time we work Roswell!"