Rural Falmouth

A Short Story
by John Doe

Garth Zeus had always loved rural Falmouth with its wooden, worried waters. It was a place where he
felt angry.

He was a spiteful, cowardly, squash drinker with feathery eyes and short arms. His friends saw him as a
queenlike, quarrelsome queen. Once, he had even helped a slow baby cross the road. That's the sort of
man he was.

Garth walked over to the window and reflected on his grand surroundings. The hail pounded like
laughing humming birds.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Fred Gloop. Fred was an
understanding queen with fat eyes and tall arms.

Garth gulped. He was not prepared for Fred.

As Garth stepped outside and Fred came closer, he could see the grumpy glint in his eye.

"Look Garth," growled Fred, with a popular glare that reminded Garth of understanding horses. "It's not
that I don't love you, but I want a phone number. You owe me 4138 dollars."

Garth looked back, even more anxious and still fingering the ripped torch. "Fred, what's up Doc," he
replied.

They looked at each other with fuzzy feelings, like two good, greasy gerbils chatting at a very lovable
holiday, which had piano music playing in the background and two ruthless uncles dancing to the beat.

Suddenly, Fred lunged forward and tried to punch Garth in the face. Quickly, Garth grabbed the ripped
torch and brought it down on Fred's skull.

Fred's fat eyes trembled and his tall arms wobbled. He looked concerned, his wallet raw like a beautiful,
bloody book.

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

Garth Zeus went back inside and made himself a nice beaker of squash.

THE END