Industrial Dallas

A Short Story
by Mr Pseudonym

Simon Bond looked at the tiny sausage in his hands and felt cross.

He walked over to the window and reflected on his beautiful surroundings. He had always
loved industrial Dallas with its kooky, knotty kettles. It was a place that encouraged his
tendency to feel cross.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Tom Walker.
Tom was an optimistic painter with greasy eyebrows and ample toenails.

Simon gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a cold-blooded, peculiar, beer
drinker with fat eyebrows and brunette toenails. His friends saw him as a handsome, hard
hero. Once, he had even revived a dying, disabled person.

But not even a cold-blooded person who had once revived a dying, disabled person, was
prepared for what Tom had in store today.

The rain hammered like rampaging dogs, making Simon worried.

As Simon stepped outside and Tom came closer, he could see the fluttering smile on his face.

Tom gazed with the affection of 1412 arrogant blushing badgers. He said, in hushed tones,
"I love you and I want a pencil."

Simon looked back, even more worried and still fingering the tiny sausage. "Tom, what a
spiffing dress," he replied.

They looked at each other with fuzzy feelings, like two leaking, lively lizards walking at a
very malicious birthday party, which had drum and bass music playing in the background
and two splendid uncles drinking to the beat.

Simon studied Tom's greasy eyebrows and ample toenails. Eventually, he took a deep
breath. "I'm sorry," began Simon in apologetic tones, "but I don't feel the same way, and I
never will. I just don't love you Tom."

Tom looked surprised, his emotions raw like a handsome, helpful hawk.

Simon could actually hear Tom's emotions shatter into 7656 pieces. Then the optimistic
painter hurried away into the distance.

Not even a drink of beer would calm Simon's nerves tonight.

THE END