You had trespassed into the property of a privet farm, thinking you’re alone, however, you were proven wrong when one of the farmers stopped you in your tracks with a rusty shotgun raised.

Farmer: “hold it right there…”

The farmer’s son, maybe 17, snuck up behind you and grabbed you by the shoulders, some barn rope in hand to restrain you with.

Farmer’s Son: “Too late to leave now, stranger.”