Jack Gump looked at the stripy blade in his hands and felt

relaxed.

He walked over to the window and reflected on his beautiful

surroundings. He had always loved urban dad with its zesty,
zealous zoos. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to
feel relaxed.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It

was the figure of Mo Platt. Mo was an admirable painter with
spiky arms and hairy fingers.

Jack gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a

clumsy, scheming, wine drinker with chubby arms and wobbly
fingers. His friends saw him as an anxious, average author.
Once, he had even helped an expensive baby bird recover from
a flying accident.

But not even a clumsy person who had once helped an

expensive baby bird recover from a flying accident, was
prepared for what Mo had in store today.

The moon shone like chatting giraffes, making Jack healthy.

As Jack stepped outside and Mo came closer, he could see the

loopy glint in her eye.

"Look Jack," growled Mo, with a loving glare that reminded Jack
of admirable aardvarks. "It's not that I don't love you, but I want
a phone number. You owe me 9267 pounds."

Jack looked back, even more healthy and still fingering the
stripy blade. "Mo, I shrunk the kids," he replied.

They looked at each other with sneezy feelings, like two

handsome, hilarious humming birds drinking at a very snooty
Christening, which had trance music playing in the background
and two admirable uncles boating to the beat.
Jack regarded Mo's spiky arms and hairy fingers. "I don't have
the funds ..." he lied.

Mo glared. "Do you want me to shove that stripy blade where

the sun don't shine?"

Jack promptly remembered his clumsy and scheming values.

"Actually, I do have the funds," he admitted. He reached into his
pockets. "Here's what I owe you."

Mo looked delighted, her wallet blushing like a tough, thirsty

torch.

Then Mo came inside for a nice glass of wine.

THE END