Welp, folks, decided I’d do something to get my mind off of something. So here’s the first story, "Cold-Blooded Bea Arthur."
Smitty Werben Janglemanjensen looked at the stylish soda-drinking cap in his hands and felt dismayed.
He walked over to the window and reflected on his beautiful surroundings. He had always hated spacious LucasArts with its silly, slow Skywalker Ranch. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel dismayed.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Bea Arthur. Bea was a cold-blooded dangerous with fair eyeball and pretty kidney.
Smitty Werben gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a fat, disgusting, soda drinker with curvaceous eyeball and ruddy kidney. His friends saw him as a fancy, freshly-squeezed fishy. Once, he had even saved a fragile George Lucas that was stuck in a drain.
But not even a fat person who had once saved a fragile George Lucas that was stuck in a drain, was prepared for what Bea had in store today.
The apocalypse teased like striking wookie, making Smitty Werben broken.
As Smitty Werben stepped outside and Bea came closer, he could see the raspy smile on her face.
“Look Smitty Werben,” growled Bea, with a hairy glare that reminded Smitty Werben of cold-blooded gungan. “I hate you and I want destruction. You owe me 996 dollars.”
Smitty Werben looked back, even more broken and still fingering the stylish soda-drinking cap. “Bea, I really hate your guts. Seriously,” he replied.
They looked at each other with anxious feelings, like two embarrassed, enthusiastic ewok cringing at a very stingy Christmas, which had orchestral music playing in the background and two forgetful uncles dying to the beat.
Smitty Werben regarded Bea’s fair eyeball and pretty kidney. “I don’t have the funds …” he lied.
Bea glared. “Do you want me to shove that stylish soda-drinking cap where the sun don’t shine?”
Smitty Werben promptly remembered his fat and disgusting values. “Actually, I do have the funds,” he admitted. He reached into his pockets. “Here’s what I owe you.”
Bea looked creepy, her wallet blushing like a long, lonely lightsaber.
Then Bea came inside for a nice drink of soda.
Two Incredible Uncles Bopping to the Beat
Plural Egol looked at the ribbed record in his hands and felt shocked.
He walked over to the window and reflected on his industrial surroundings. He had always loved grey Atomic Bomb Shelter with its mute, miniature money. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel shocked.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Looch . Looch was a proud meme master with wobbly warts and sloppy eyelashes.
Plural gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was an arrogant, tactless, hot sauce drinker with curvaceous warts and short eyelashes. His friends saw him as an elegant, empty enthusiast. Once, he had even made a cup of tea for a filthy Greg Farshtey.
But not even an arrogant person who had once made a cup of tea for a filthy Greg Farshtey, was prepared for what Looch had in store today.
The dastardly teased like boating horse, making Plural calm.
As Plural stepped outside and Looch came closer, he could see the adventurous glint in his eye.
“I am here because I want waffles,” Looch bellowed, in a forgetful tone. He slammed his fist against Plural’s chest, with the force of 9545 salamander. “I frigging hate you, Plural Egol.”
Plural looked back, even more calm and still fingering the ribbed record. “Looch, dat’s h4ckz m80. U stink. Go get a life,” he replied.
They looked at each other with confident feelings, like two wandering, wicked whale drinking at a very intelligent Chronicler’s funeral, which had vaporwave music playing in the background and two incredible uncles bopping to the beat.
Suddenly, Looch lunged forward and tried to punch Plural in the face. Quickly, Plural grabbed the ribbed record and brought it down on Looch’s skull.
Looch’s wobbly warts trembled and his sloppy eyelashes wobbled. He looked ambivalent, his body raw like a magnificent, mammoth microwave.
Then he let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Looch was dead.
Plural Egol went back inside and made himself a nice drink of hot sauce.