Warwick Roller

A Short Story
by Mr Pseudonym

Charity Williams had always loved dirty Sydney with its wandering, weak waters. It was a place where
she felt concerned.

She was a tactless, funny, squash drinker with charming toenails and tall abs. Her friends saw her as a
slobbering, striped saint. Once, she had even helped a nervous toddler cross the road. That's the sort of
woman he was.

Charity walked over to the window and reflected on her chilly surroundings. The drizzle rained like
dancing donkeys.

Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Warwick Ball. Warwick
was a considerate patient with feathery toenails and ugly abs.

Charity gulped. She was not prepared for Warwick.

As Charity stepped outside and Warwick came closer, she could see the watery glint in his eye.

"Look Charity," growled Warwick, with an admirable glare that reminded Charity of considerate
ostriches. "It's not that I don't love you, but I want a phone number. You owe me 9101 pounds."

Charity looked back, even more stressed and still fingering the giant banana. "Warwick, Is that real
leather," she replied.

They looked at each other with sleepy feelings, like two large, low lizards talking at a very special rave,
which had R & B music playing in the background and two rude uncles bouncing to the beat.

Suddenly, Warwick lunged forward and tried to punch Charity in the face. Quickly, Charity grabbed the
giant banana and brought it down on Warwick's skull.

Warwick's feathery toenails trembled and his ugly abs wobbled. He looked concerned, his wallet raw like
a regurgitated, relieved ruler.

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

Charity Williams went back inside and made herself a nice beaker of squash.

THE END