Two Smelly Uncles Running to the Beat
A Short Story
Phil Blast had always hated dirty San Francisco with its spotty, stale swamps. It was a place where he felt surprised.
He was a spiteful, vile, whiskey drinker with pointy asshole and scrawny armpits. His friends saw him as an abundant, adorable academic. Once, he had even helped a black toddler cross the road. That's the sort of man he was.
Phil walked over to the window and reflected on his industrial surroundings. The snow flurried like eating puppies.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Annabelle Jones. Annabelle was a tactless rover with moist asshole and slimy armpits.
Phil gulped. He was not prepared for Annabelle.
As Phil stepped outside and Annabelle came closer, he could see the crowded glint in her eye.
"I am here because I want a wifi code," Annabelle bellowed, in a popular tone. She slammed her fist against Phil's chest, with the force of 1331 tortoises. "I frigging hate you, Phil Blast."
Phil looked back, even more unstable and still fingering the weathered teapot. "Annabelle, d'oh," he replied.
They looked at each other with sneezy feelings, like two knobby, kaleidoscopic koalas boating at a very peculiar rave, which had dubstep music playing in the background and two smelly uncles running to the beat.
Suddenly, Annabelle lunged forward and tried to punch Phil in the face. Quickly, Phil grabbed the weathered teapot and brought it down on Annabelle's skull.
Annabelle's moist asshole trembled and her slimy armpits wobbled. She looked angry, her body raw like a brainy, bulbous blade.
Then she let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Annabelle Jones was dead.
Phil Blast went back inside and made himself a nice glass of whiskey.
The Fucking End.