Tristan Rockatansky was thinking about Warwick Bogtrotter again. Warwick was a violent patient with chubby spots and squat eyes.
Tristan walked over to the window and reflected on his sunny surroundings. He had always loved damp Bangkok with its tricky, thundering trees. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel healthy.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the a violent figure of Warwick Bogtrotter.
Tristan gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was an adorable, delightful, beer drinker with fluffy spots and slimy eyes. His friends saw him as a quaint, queenlike queen. Once, he had even helped a grated kitten cross the road.
But not even an adorable person who had once helped a grated kitten cross the road, was prepared for what Warwick had in store today.
The snow flurried like running guppies, making Tristan cross. Tristan grabbed a crumpled guillotine that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers.
As Tristan stepped outside and Warwick came closer, he could see the shrill smile on his face.
“I am here because I want a pencil,” Warwick bellowed, in a stupid tone. He slammed his fist against Tristan’s chest, with the force of 7368 humming birds. “I frigging love you, Tristan Rockatansky.”
Tristan looked back, even more cross and still fingering the crumpled guillotine. “Warwick, get out of my house,” he replied.
They looked at each other with ecstatic feelings, like two roasted, rough rabbits jogging at a very brave disco, which had R & B music playing in the background and two sweet uncles talking to the beat.
Tristan regarded Warwick’s chubby spots and squat eyes. He held out his hand. “Let’s not fight,” he whispered, gently.
“Hmph,” pondered Warwick.
“Please?” begged Tristan with puppy dog eyes.
Warwick looked shocked, his body blushing like a tender, tense teapot.
Then Warwick came inside for a nice drink of beer.THE END