Barry B. Benson had always loved stinky Area 51 with its combative, crazy catz. It was a place where he felt healthy.
He was a charming, sympathetic, faygo drinker with sloppy abs and blonde eyes. His friends saw him as an abundant, annoyed angle. Once, he had even saved a doubtful bear that was stuck in a drain. That's the sort of man he was.
Barry walked over to the window and reflected on his grey surroundings. The hail pounded like burning rabbits.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Campbell Soup. Campbell was a forgetful angle with solid abs and ample eyes.
Barry gulped. He was not prepared for Campbell.
As Barry stepped outside and Campbell came closer, he could see the harsh smile on his face.
Campbell gazed with the affection of 6031 smelly melted musclebeasts. He said, in hushed tones, "I love you and I want murder of crows."
Barry looked back, even more afraid and still fingering the shiiiiiiiiiiiinfinitly can of faygo. "Campbell, you taste good," he replied.
They looked at each other with sneezy feelings, like two frightened, fluffy foxes stabbing at a very thoughtless funeral of an alien at area 51, which had country music playing in the background and two grateful uncles thrashing to the beat.
Barry studied Campbell's solid abs and ample eyes. Eventually, he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," began Barry in apologetic tones, "but I don't feel the same way, and I never will. I just don't love you Campbell."
Campbell looked angry, his emotions raw like a gigantic, grotesque gamzee.
Barry could actually hear Campbell's emotions shatter into 571 pieces. Then the forgetful angle hurried away into the distance.
Not even a drink of faygo would calm Barry's nerves tonight.
