Shelves... There were a lot of shelves...

Max had gone mad. First, he'd taken me - still mounted dangerously on his back, riding him in a non-erotic fashion - into town, where he'd viciously chased a puppy for 14 minutes, until he got bored and bought some sausage rolls. Gripping them too tightly in his newly-muscled hands, he sent sausage, pig anus and gloopy fat squirting up and onto my face. As I rode his back.
 Then, having cleaned me up, he set of to the D.I.Y shop and bought a pile of shelves, which he proceeded to hammer viciously onto his wall. Everywhere. Horizontally, vertically, sometimes at strange 37-degree angles, he pinned shelving all across his flat. This paragraph, I fear, I cannot end erotically. Well, so what?
 STOP JUDGING ME!

Sorry... Got a bit carried away...

Max and I have reached a crossroads...

Literally. We're standing at a point where two roads cross. Max, angered by his recent inability to defeat a starved, out-of-shape tramp, his pride damaged and his ear crudely sewn to his hair, wanted to get in shape. Of course, Max is rather lazy and easily distracted, making exercise a dangerous thing. So, never one to live life safely, he leaped to the extreme solution - trading his soul for the ripped physique of a some sort of well-physiqued person. Hence why we had travelled to meet him at a crossroads in the middle of nowhere.
 Satan, suited in the finest Parisian fashions (All of them), appeared on the hour. Stepping from the back of a yellow cab, he approached Max, ripped his shirt off, and painted fake abs onto his stomach. Standing back, he nodded as an artist appreciating his work, and turned to leave. Max, keen to try his new strength out, hopped a fence and punched a cow. The cow, mooing calmly, flew away into the distance. I however did not moo calmly. I was worried. Very worried.
 Flexing his muscles, Max hoisted me onto his back and set off at a run. Apparently, he had a list, and we were going to punch our way through it. I didn't like where this was going...