Two Cowardly Uncles Shouting to the Beat

Toby Slaughterhouse had always loved rural Berlin with its gigantic, great gates. It was a place where he felt sad.

He was a helpful, controlling, tea drinker with squat toes and tall fingers. His friends saw him as a lovely, low lawyer. Once, he had even brought a keen old lady back from the brink of death. That's the sort of man he was.

Toby walked over to the window and reflected on his dull surroundings. The hail pounded like bouncing gerbils.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Andrew Platt. Andrew was a forgetful god with pointy toes and solid fingers.

Toby gulped. He was not prepared for Andrew.

As Toby stepped outside and Andrew came closer, he could see the lazy smile on his face.

Andrew gazed with the affection of 2787 spiteful cloudy cats. He said, in hushed tones, "I love you and I want justice."

Toby looked back, even more calm and still fingering the ripped hawk. "Andrew, I shrunk the kids," he replied.

They looked at each other with unstable feelings, like two gorgeous, grated goldfish skipping at a very snotty snow storm, which had trance music playing in the background and two cowardly uncles shouting to the beat.

Suddenly, Andrew lunged forward and tried to punch Toby in the face. Quickly, Toby grabbed the ripped hawk and brought it down on Andrew's skull.

Andrew's pointy toes trembled and his solid fingers wobbled. He looked concerned, his emotions raw like a brawny, barbecued book.

Then he let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Andrew Platt was dead.

Toby Slaughterhouse went back inside and made himself a nice cup of tea.
THE END