“Bro that ain’t shawarma, that’s sh-art-ma.”

The shop went silent. A few young lads in the corner started dry-heaving. One of the eshays whispered:

Not a rogue bit of burnt meat. Not a dodgy chunk of lamb fat. Nah. This was the real deal. A full, undeniable, human-made log.

There. Right in the middle of the kebab. A straight-up turd.

Spanian stood there, holding a half-wrapped kebab in his tattooed hand. His face? Pure disgust. His knuckles? White from gripping the pita.

The crowd froze. The grills sizzled. The neon “Open” sign flickered like a horror movie scene.

“THAT’S FULL POO LAD! THAT’S OOTROCKS BRAH!!”

But suddenly, from the back of the shop, there was a blood-curdling yell:

Eshays were posted up at the front, fresh TNs on, vape clouds hanging heavy in the air.

The joint was packed.