Re-uploaded after The Attack

The last twelve hours had been the greatest in their lives. Alcohol, drugs, vandalism and violence - they indulged every base and selfish urge their delinquent little hearts could crave. Now they only wished they could bring the rest of their gang of friends.
As if on cue, they came upon a photography studio advertising post-cards to send to the mainland.
As the photographer set his strange, antique camera, one of the lads grinned.
"Dude, I got a great idea." He turned around and dropped his shorts, exposing his smooth buttocks at the camera. "Wait 'til the guys get a load of this."
"Oh man, yes!" His friend laughed and turned to bare his own rear.
The photographer, hidden beneath the heavy dark cloth of his camera, smirked.
"Alright, boys. Say 'Donkey'."
The two lads grinned, angled their rumps for the best shot.
"Donkey!"
There was a blinding flash.

***

The photographer stood in the red light of his dark room, watching the film develop in its chemical bath. He pulled it dripping from the tray and smiled his half moon grin. The lads had come out rather handsome - four legs, wide flanks, good strong backs perfect for field work, or the mines. And no red eye, which was always excellent. He hung the photograph up to dry along with those of other customers.
He stood back, observing his work with professional pride. A bell tingled in the other room.
"Be right with you," he called to the waiting customer.
Sparing one last look at the photographs, he made his way out through the exit, turned off the light, and closed the door.