Solid Guillotine

Dolly Pitt looked at the solid guillotine in her hands and felt unstable.
She walked over to the window and reflected on her picturesque
surroundings. She had always loved rural Sleepford with its teeny-
tiny, testy trees. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel
unstable.
Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was
the figure of Clarke Trescothik. Clarke was an energetic carer with
wobbly toes and sticky elbows.
Dolly gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was a
predatory, stable, port drinker with fragile toes and moist elbows. Her
friends saw her as a bulbous, better bear. Once, she had even
helped a talented disabled person recover from a flying accident.
But not even a predatory person who had once helped a talented
disabled person recover from a flying accident, was prepared for
what Clarke had in store today.
The wind blew like drinking monkeys, making Dolly ambivalent.
As Dolly stepped outside and Clarke came closer, she could see the
high glint in his eye.
"I am here because I want peace," Clarke bellowed, in a wild tone.
He slammed his fist against Dolly's chest, with the force of 9188
rabbits. "I frigging hate you, Dolly Pitt."
Dolly looked back, even more ambivalent and still fingering the solid
guillotine. "Clarke, let's get married," she replied.
They looked at each other with sneezy feelings, like two faffdorking,
fast foxes talking at a very brutal rave, which had drum and bass
music playing in the background and two stable uncles smiling to the
beat.
Dolly regarded Clarke's wobbly toes and sticky elbows. She held out
her hand. "Let's not fight," she whispered, gently.
"Hmph," pondered Clarke.
"Please?" begged Dolly with puppy dog eyes.
Clarke looked irritable, his body blushing like a spilt, stingy sandwich.
Then Clarke came inside for a nice glass of port.
THE END