Optimistic Brad Johnson

A Short Story
by Untitled writer
Brad Johnson had always loved noisy Exeter with its narrow, nervous
nooks. It was a place where he felt relaxed.
He was an optimistic, popular, beer drinker with feathery ankles and brown
legs. His friends saw him as a lazy, loose lover. Once, he had even rescued a
difficult blind person from a burning building. That's the sort of man he
was.
Brad walked over to the window and reflected on his quiet surroundings.
The sleet rained like skipping elephants.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure
of Andy Connor. Andy was a violent painter with solid ankles and greasy
legs.
Brad gulped. He was not prepared for Andy.
As Brad stepped outside and Andy came closer, he could see the greasy
smile on his face.
"I am here because I want a pencil," Andy bellowed, in a sinister tone. He
slammed his fist against Brad's chest, with the force of 7961 humming
birds. "I frigging love you, Brad Johnson."
Brad looked back, even more sleepy and still fingering the peculiar map.
"Andy, hands up or I'll shoot," he replied.
They looked at each other with sparkly feelings, like two rough, rare rats
shouting at a very considerate birthday party, which had reggae music
playing in the background and two stingy uncles sitting to the beat.
Brad studied Andy's solid ankles and greasy legs. Eventually, he took a deep
breath. "I'm sorry, but I can't give you a pencil," he explained, in pitying
tones.
Andy looked delighted, his body raw like a homeless, high-pitched hat.
Brad could actually hear Andy's body shatter into 7488 pieces. Then the
violent painter hurried away into the distance.
Not even a drink of beer would calm Brad's nerves tonight.
THE END