Two Deranged Uncles Cooking to the Beat

A Short Story
by Random Writer
Andrew Parker was thinking about Pete England again. Pete was a patient painter
with ginger feet and sloppy hands.

Andrew walked over to the window and reflected on his pretty surroundings. He had
always loved industrial Moscow with its inexpensive, impossible igloos. It was a
place that encouraged his tendency to feel angry.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the a patient
figure of Pete England.

Andrew gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a brave, cowardly, brandy
drinker with brown feet and feathery hands. His friends saw him as a quaint, quirky
queen. Once, he had even made a cup of tea for a steamed injured bird.

But not even a brave person who had once made a cup of tea for a steamed injured
bird, was prepared for what Pete had in store today.

The sun shone like jogging owls, making Andrew ecstatic. Andrew grabbed a magic
blade that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers.

As Andrew stepped outside and Pete came closer, he could see the smiling smile on
his face.

"Look Andrew," growled Pete, with a cowardly glare that reminded Andrew of patient
kittens. "It's not that I don't love you, but I want a resolution. You owe me 8137
gold pieces."

Andrew looked back, even more ecstatic and still fingering the magic blade. "Pete,
oh my God they killed Kenny," he replied.

They looked at each other with afraid feelings, like two faithful, friendly frogs
singing at a very gentle Christening, which had classical music playing in the
background and two deranged uncles cooking to the beat.

Andrew studied Pete's ginger feet and sloppy hands. Eventually, he took a deep
breath. "I'm afraid I declared myself bankrupt," explained Andrew. "You will never
get your money."

"No!" objected Pete. "You lie!"

"I do not!" retorted Andrew. "Now get your ginger feet out of here before I hit you
with this magic blade."

Pete looked sparkly, his wallet raw like a gloopy, greasy gun.

Andrew could actually hear Pete's wallet shatter into 8137 pieces. Then the patient
painter hurried away into the distance.

Not even a glass of brandy would calm Andrew's nerves tonight.

THE END