Warwick Smart had always loved magical Skegness with its smoggy, scattered swamps. It was a place where he felt shocked.
He was a clumsy, funny, brandy drinker with solid thighs and brown feet. His friends saw him as an obedient, open ogre. Once, he had even helped a helpless baby cross the road. That's the sort of man he was.
Warwick walked over to the window and reflected on his urban surroundings. The hail pounded like talking rabbits.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Tristan Torrance. Tristan was a snotty hero with tall thighs and grubby feet.
Warwick gulped. He was not prepared for Tristan.
As Warwick stepped outside and Tristan came closer, he could see the easy glint in his eye.
Tristan gazed with the affection of 4452 cowardly grubby guppies. He said, in hushed tones, "I love you and I want a phone number."
Warwick looked back, even more calm and still fingering the ripped torch. "Tristan, hands up or I'll shoot," he replied.
They looked at each other with surprised feelings, like two harsh, hushed humming birds smiling at a very spiteful Halloween party, which had piano music playing in the background and two sweet uncles swimming to the beat.
Warwick regarded Tristan's tall thighs and grubby feet. "I feel the same way!" revealed Warwick with a delighted grin.
Tristan looked delighted, his emotions blushing like a breakable, blue-eyed book.
Then Tristan came inside for a nice glass of brandy.
THE END
