Susan Blast had always loved sleepy Newton Abbot with its noisy, nasty nooks. It was a place where she felt lonely.
She was an optimistic, peculiar, tea drinker with ample ankles and hairy fingers. Her friends saw her as a crooked, cruel coward. Once, she had even helped a moaning chicken cross the road. That's the sort of woman he was.
Susan walked over to the window and reflected on her picturesque surroundings. The wind blew like skipping guppies.
Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Cuthbert Humble. Cuthbert was a violent saint with curvy ankles and hairy fingers.
Susan gulped. She was not prepared for Cuthbert.
As Susan stepped outside and Cuthbert came closer, she could see the busy glint in his eye.
Cuthbert gazed with the affection of 3660 scheming freezing flamingos. He said, in hushed tones, "I love you and I want equality."
Susan looked back, even more sneezy and still fingering the peculiar blade. "Cuthbert, what's up Doc," she replied.
They looked at each other with calm feelings, like two amused, alive aardvarks drinking at a very gentle Valentine's meal, which had piano music playing in the background and two intuitive uncles walking to the beat.
Suddenly, Cuthbert lunged forward and tried to punch Susan in the face. Quickly, Susan grabbed the peculiar blade and brought it down on Cuthbert's skull.
Cuthbert's curvy ankles trembled and his hairy fingers wobbled. He looked angry, his emotions raw like a many, motionless map.
Then he let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Cuthbert Humble was dead.
Susan Blast went back inside and made herself a nice cup of tea.
THE END
