Stanley Ball was thinking about Clarke Randall again. Clarke was a mean writer with fragile abs and ugly eyebrows.

Stanley walked over to the window and reflected on his old-fashioned surroundings. He had always loved creepy Oxford with its gloopy, glorious gates. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel irritable.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the a mean figure of Clarke Randall.

Stanley gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a giving, scheming, tea drinker with feathery abs and dirty eyebrows. His friends saw him as a wasteful, weak writer. Once, he had even helped an ordinary chicken cross the road.

But not even a giving person who had once helped an ordinary chicken cross the road, was prepared for what Clarke had in store today.

The wind blew like shouting elephants, making Stanley sleepy. Stanley grabbed a ribbed piano that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers.

As Stanley stepped outside and Clarke came closer, he could see the wet glint in his eye.

“I am here because I want justice,” Clarke bellowed, in a callous tone. He slammed his fist against Stanley’s chest, with the force of 4166 tortoises. “I frigging love you, Stanley Ball.”

Stanley looked back, even more sleepy and still f******** the ribbed piano. “Clarke, what’s up Doc,” he replied.

They looked at each other with delighted feelings, like two gentle, giant goldfish bopping at a very hopeful disco, which had drum and bass music playing in the background and two rude uncles thinking to the beat.

Suddenly, Clarke lunged forward and tried to punch Stanley in the face. Quickly, Stanley grabbed the ribbed piano and brought it down on Clarke’s skull.

Clarke’s fragile abs trembled and his ugly eyebrows wobbled. He looked afraid, his body raw like a bumpy, breezy blade.

Then he let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Clarke Randall was dead.

Stanley Ball went back inside and made himself a nice cup of tea.

THE END