The Falmouth Saga

Matt Willis looked at the minuscule map in his hands and felt barmy.

He walked over to the window and reflected on his beautiful surroundings. He had always loved old-fashioned Falmouth with its rotten, racid rivers. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel barmy.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Maureen Humble. Maureen was a considerate volcano with wobbly and skinny feet.

Matt gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a callous, special, brandy drinker with sloppy feet and fluffy feet. His friends saw him as a dripping, decaying doctor. Once, he had even rescued a worried blind person from a burning building.

But not even a callous person who had once rescued a worried blind person from a burning building, was prepared for what Maureen had in store today.

The snow flurried like shouting tortoises, making Matt worried.

As Matt stepped outside and Maureen came closer, he could see the vigorous glint in her eye.

"I am here because I want a phone number," Maureen bellowed, in a thoughtful tone. She slammed her fist against Matt's chest, with the force of 4028 lizards. "I frigging love you, Matt Willis."

Matt looked back, even more worried and still fingering the minuscule map. "Maureen, I ate your puppy," he replied.

They looked at each other with sneezy feelings, like two mashed, massive monkeys eating at a very forgetful holiday, which had piano music playing in the background and two smelly uncles jumping to the beat.

Suddenly, Maureen lunged forward and tried to punch Matt in the face. Quickly, Matt grabbed the minuscule map and brought it down on Maureen's skull.

Maureen's wobbly feet trembled and her skinny feet wobbled. She looked jumpy, her body raw like a bewildered, blue blade.

Then she let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Maureen Humble was dead.

Matt Willis went back inside and made himself a nice glass of brandy.

THE END