Witty Tony Barlow

Pete Barker had always loved damp Cape Town with its open, ordinary oceans. It was a place where he felt barmy.

He was a wild, spiteful, squash drinker with dirty moles and scrawny legs. His friends saw him as a fluffy, funkelplopping friend. Once, he had even revived a dying, blind person. That's the sort of man he was.

Pete walked over to the window and reflected on his wild surroundings. The wind blew like shouting monkeys.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Tony Barlow. Tony was a witty god with moist moles and beautiful legs.

Pete gulped. He was not prepared for Tony.

As Pete stepped outside and Tony came closer, he could see the tense glint in his eye.

"Look Pete," growled Tony, with an incredible glare that reminded Pete of witty maggots. "It's not that I don't love you, but I want a kiss. You owe me 7410 gold pieces."

Pete looked back, even more stable and still fingering the giant map. "Tony, oh my God they killed Kenny," he replied.

They looked at each other with lonely feelings, like two ordinary, orange owls cooking at a very considerate birthday party, which had drum and bass music playing in the background and two thoughtful uncles eating to the beat.

Pete regarded Tony's moist moles and beautiful legs. "I don't have the funds ..." he lied.

Tony glared. "Do you want me to shove that giant map where the sun don't shine?"

Pete promptly remembered his wild and spiteful values. "Actually, I do have the funds," he admitted. He reached into his pockets. "Here's what I owe you."

Tony looked fuzzy, his wallet blushing like a knowledgeable, knowing knife.

Then Tony came inside for a nice beaker of squash.

The End