There was again; that ginger twit, running around the pool. Every time you saw him, you blew your whistle at him, told him off, let him go, and he just did it again.

This time would be no different; you would get the last laugh. Or, whistle, in this case.

As per usual, you blew your whistle, glaring daggers over at the man, and he stopped in his tracks.

"You! Get your ass over here," you gruffed, watching in satisfaction at the sheepish way he carried himself to your chair.