John Willis was thinking about Brad Doop again. Brad was an understanding saint with ugly eyes and chubby eyelashes.
John walked over to the window and reflected on his dull surroundings. He had always hated hilly New York with its tall, thirsty trees. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel sleepy.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the an understanding figure of Brad Doop.
John gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a tight-fisted, snooty, whiskey drinker with brunette eyes and blonde eyelashes. His friends saw him as a diced, depressed doctor. Once, he had even jumped into a river and saved a raw kitten.
But not even a tight-fisted person who had once jumped into a river and saved a raw kitten, was prepared for what Brad had in store today.
The sun shone like talking rabbits, making John worried. John grabbed a minuscule book that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers.
As John stepped outside and Brad came closer, he could see the tasteless glint in his eye.
"Look John," growled Brad, with a stupid glare that reminded John of understanding gerbils. "I hate you and I want a resolution. You owe me 2477 dollars."
John looked back, even more worried and still fingering the minuscule book. "Brad, I am your father," he replied.
They looked at each other with shocked feelings, like two blue-eyed, burnt bears thinking at a very peculiar Halloween party, which had orchestral music playing in the background and two predatory uncles sleeping to the beat.
John studied Brad's ugly eyes and chubby eyelashes. Eventually, he took a deep breath. "I'm afraid I declared myself bankrupt," explained John. "You will never get your money."
"No!" objected Brad. "You lie!"
"I do not!" retorted John. "Now get your ugly eyes out of here before I hit you with this minuscule book."
Brad looked ambivalent, his wallet raw like a regurgitated, round record.
John could actually hear Brad's wallet shatter into 2477 pieces. Then the understanding saint hurried away into the distance.
Not even a glass of whiskey would calm John's nerves tonight.
-Mr. EggYolk
YOU ARE READING
S. T. O. R. I. E. S
Short StoryS. T. O. R. I. E. S - Short, Technically Old Recorded by Intelligent Eggs Saga It's basically a anthology of short stories and poems that my friends and I had written for each other one Christmas Eve and after that everyday. It ranges from humor bu...
