Steven Hemingway looked at the cursed gun in his hands and felt lonely.
He walked over to the window and reflected on his dirty surroundings. He had always loved quiet Philadelphia with its unlucky, unsteady weather. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel lonely.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Brad Torrance. Brad was a cold-blooded vicar with thick eyebrows and gross fingernails.
Steven gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a delightful, daring, tea drinker with arched eyebrows and trimmed fingernails. His friends saw him as a helpful, honest handyman. Once, he had even helped a homeless chicken cross the road.
But not even a delightful person who had once helped a homeless chicken cross the road was prepared for what Brad had in store today.
As Steven stepped outside and Brad came closer, he could see the spluttering smile on his face.
"Look, Steven," growled Brad, with a courageous glare that reminded Steven of cold-blooded maggots. "It's not that I don't love you, but I want justice. You owe me 9316 dollars."
Steven looked back, even more afraid and still fingering the cursed gun. "Brad, hands up or I'll shoot," he replied.
Steven regarded Brad's fat eyebrows and solid fingernails. "I don't have the funds ..." he lied.
Brad glared. "Do you want me to shove that cursed gun where the sun don't shine?"
Steven promptly remembered his delightful and daring values. "Actually, I do have the funds," he admitted. He reached into his pockets. "Here's what I owe you."
Brad looked stable, then Brad came inside for a nice cup of tea.
YOU ARE READING
Quiet Philadelphia
Ficción GeneralI'm bad at descriptions - so I won't make one, but feel free to message me with one (if you want to). This is a story with one chapter, so not that long, but I feel like it's a good story. English isn't my first language - so please excuse any spel...
