"Tell you what. I'll shoot him for you. Then it won't be you that does it."
"No...no, thank you though. I have to be the one who does it."
Kermit stared at the rifle in his hands. It had a certain heftiness to it, a weight in his chest, the kind that compacts a pit and crushes the limbs inwards. He knew what the rifle meant. He knew what it symbolized. He also knew he had to be the one.
He had to be the criminal that did it.
Garfield swathed his arms around Kermit in an understanding embrace, an embrace that said, "let's do this." Kermit leaned into his warmth, eyes closed, and sank into the moment. Above them, a velvet ooze seeped into the stars, separated only by dots of wax that repelled the ink and let it drip to the earth. Kermit dangled his legs off of the sky-scraper and opened his eyes, only to wince in the moon's glare and bury his face in Garfield's chest. All too soon, the embrace ended. Garfield slid aside.
"Well," he said, "the time has come."
Kermit gripped the rifle. His knuckles turned white.
"The MILF hunter falls tonight."
YOU ARE READING
Kermit the Freud
HumorKermit the Frog must assassinate Sigmund Freud. Garfield is also there. Will they succeed? This came from an activity in my friend's literary club. She told us to open a random book and point to a random line on a random page, and whatever line we...
