Two Gracious Uncles Partying to the Beat - A Generated Short Story 3

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Peter Parker looked at the cursed kettle in his hands and felt stressed.

He walked over to the window and reflected on his busy surroundings. He had always loved industrial New York with its silly, scary skyscrapers. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel stressed.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Natasha Romanoff. Natasha was an incredible god with skinny arms and greasy feet.

Peter gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a brutal, witty, brandy drinker with blonde arms and scrawny feet. His friends saw him as a gentle, giant giant. Once, he had even helped a big chicken cross the road.

But not even a brutal person who had once helped a big chicken cross the road was prepared for what Natasha had in-store today.

The clouds danced like sitting foxes, making Peter happy.

As Peter stepped outside and Natasha came closer, he could see the determined glint in her eye.

"Look Peter," growled Natasha, with an intelligent glare that reminded Peter of incredible badgers. "It's not that I don't love you, but I want peace. You owe me 7371 dollars."

Peter looked back, even more, happy and still fingering the cursed kettle. "Natasha, Is that real leather," he replied.

They looked at each other with worried feelings, like two deafening, determined donkeys boating at a very tight-fisted Christening, which had classical music playing in the background and two gracious uncles partying to the beat.

Peter studied Natasha's skinny arms and greasy feet. Eventually, he took a deep breath. "I'm afraid I declared myself bankrupt," explained Peter. "You will never get your money."

"No!" objected Natasha. "You lie!"

"I do not!" retorted Peter. "Now get your skinny arms out of here before I hit you with this cursed kettle."

Natasha looked healthy, her wallet raw like a glamorous, green guillotine.

Peter could actually hear Natasha's wallet shatter into 7371 pieces. Then the incredible god hurried away into the distance.

Not even a glass of brandy would calm Peter's nerves tonight.

THE END

Words: 332

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