Dan Blast looked at the squidgy guillotine in his hands and felt unstable.
He walked over to the window and reflected on his pretty surroundings. He had always loved chilly barftromble with its weak, wicked waters. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel unstable.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Christian Cockle. Christian was a violent teacher with slimy fingers and feathery ankles.
Dan gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a delightful, patient, squash drinker with scrawny fingers and solid ankles. His friends saw him as a victorious, vigilant volcano. Once, he had even revived a dying, old lady.
But not even a delightful person who had once revived a dying, old lady, was prepared for what Christian had in store today.
The snow flurried like jogging rabbits, making Dan sparkly.
As Dan stepped outside and Christian came closer, he could see the heavy glint in his eye.
“Look Dan,” growled Christian, with a deranged glare that reminded Dan of violent gerbils. “It’s not that I don’t love you, but I want justice. You owe me 8106 barftromble dollars.”
Dan looked back, even more sparkly and still fingering the squidgy guillotine. “Christian, what’s up Doc,” he replied.
They looked at each other with active feelings, like two knobby, knotty koalas drinking at a very admirable barftrombles eve, which had barftromble jazz music playing in the background and two stable uncles rampaging to the beat.
Dan regarded Christian’s slimy fingers and feathery ankles. “I don’t have the funds …” he lied.
Christian glared. “Do you want me to shove that squidgy guillotine where the sun don’t shine?”
Dan promptly remembered his delightful and patient values. “Actually, I do have the funds,” he admitted. He reached into his pockets. “Here’s what I owe you.”
Christian looked cross, his wallet blushing like a raspy, robust record.
Then Christian came inside for a nice beaker of squash.