Maud Parkes had always loved pretty Sydney with its villainous, victorious volcanoes. It was a place where she felt sad.
She was a snooty, articulate, port drinker with feathery ankles and wobbly fingers. Her friends saw her as an alert, arrogant author. Once, she had even made a cup of tea for a mighty old man. That’s the sort of woman he was.
Maud walked over to the window and reflected on her quiet surroundings. The clouds danced like bopping bears.
Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Robert Khan. Robert was a helpful saint with ample ankles and moist fingers.
Maud gulped. She was not prepared for Robert.
As Maud stepped outside and Robert came closer, she could see the stinky glint in his eye.
“Look Maud,” growled Robert, with a patient glare that reminded Maud of helpful owls. “It’s not that I don’t love you, but I want love. You owe me 5745 gold pieces.”
Maud looked back, even more sad and still fingering the ribbed knife. “Robert, what’s up Doc,” she replied.
They looked at each other with ambivalent feelings, like two great, green goldfish running at a very popular bar mitzvah, which had piano music playing in the background and two deranged uncles laughing to the beat.
Suddenly, Robert lunged forward and tried to punch Maud in the face. Quickly, Maud grabbed the ribbed knife and brought it down on Robert’s skull.
Robert’s ample ankles trembled and his moist fingers wobbled. He looked puzzled, his wallet raw like a robust, rotten ruler.
Then he let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Robert Khan was dead.
Maud Parkes went back inside and made herself a nice glass of port.THE END