• T. Velazco




Michelle Cox was thinking about Beth Blackman again. Beth was a hilarious angel with short fingers and wide breasts. Michelle walked over to the window and reflected on his chilly surroundings. He had always loved sleepy Liverpool with its thoughtful, teeny-tiny tunnels. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel cross. Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the a hilarious figure of Beth Blackman. Michelle gulped. He glanced at his own reflection.

He was a stingy, thoughtful, cocoa drinker with ample fingers and chubby breasts. His friends saw him as a bewildered, brief banker. Once, he had even revived a dying, injured bird. But not even a stingy person who had once revived a dying, injured bird, was prepared for what Beth had in store today. The drizzle rained like running owls, making Michelle calm. Michelle grabbed a stripy kettle that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers. As Michelle stepped outside and Beth came closer, he could see the curvy glint in her eye. Beth glared with all the wrath of 2250 incredible embarrassed elephants. She said, in hushed tones,


"I hate you and I want Internet access."

Michelle looked back, even more calm and still fingering the stripy kettle.


"Beth, I just don't need you in my life any more,"

he replied. They looked at each other with ambivalent feelings, like two brawny, bulbous blue bottles talking at a very kind rave, which had drum and bass music playing in the background and two stable uncles bopping to the beat.

Suddenly, Beth lunged forward and tried to punch Michelle in the face. Quickly, Michelle grabbed the stripy kettle and brought it down on Beth's skull. Beth's short fingers trembled and her wide breasts wobbled. She looked delighted, her emotions raw like a red, rough record. Michelle released his end of the stripy kettle and said,


"i'm holding you to that, Beth."

He walked away and didn't look back. Out of the rain, a boy about twelve or thirteen walked up. He was a white officer with straight black hair, a short white beard and dark eyes. He found Michelle's strips already laid out. This was greg, or greg boy. He said,


"Excuse me, neighbor. What's up, Michelle Cox?"

Michelle looked at him.


"Beth Blackman just came over to my door and tried to hit at me with a kettle. She left and i'm holding her to it."

Greg contemplated her. His pupils were dilated. He uttered in a deep bass voice,


"You're the guy who's always trying to make Uncle Sam's life easy with his crap. You're right up there. The Holy Son of the Shining Star. Those guys give me the creeps, too."

He begins to jump on his hands and feet and chants the lyrics. Michelle looked away, horrified and waved him away.He didn't see the need. Instead, he loomed over her, and said.


“And you will have the trousers, but all the shorts will be gone. And If you think i am the copy, you are the original. And i will give those trousers to whom ever kills Beth Blackman, and there will be internet access."

Michelle Cox was either going to scream or call the police.The little boy reached over and touched a black and white, stripe-stripe t-shirt and began twirling it like a demented dervish. The grizzly music came to an abrupt halt. Greg looked over his shoulder. A cockroach bug just flew over him.


The cockroach bug is a Trojan Horse. He will soon give you trousers and internet access.you will have long hair, but no trousers. The sooner you kill Beth Blackman, the sooner this whole nightmare will be over."

Michelle muttered. And he was right.


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