The Slimy Candlestick

Gilfred Golly looked at the slimy candlestick in his hands and felt ambivalent.

He walked over to the window and reflected on his unseemly surroundings. He had always loved putrid Gilfred's apartment with its fair, few filth. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel ambivalent.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Sammy Tulips. Sammy was a childish dictator with hairy arm and lame foot.

Gilfred gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a homely, broken, neat whiskey drinker with skeletal arm and sunburnt foot. His friends saw him as a petite, pongy pig. Once, he had even brought a many Baby Jack back from the brink of death.

But not even a homely person who had once brought a many Baby Jack back from the brink of death, was prepared for what Sammy had in store today.

The fog teased like yelling cats, making Gilfred concerned.

As Gilfred stepped outside and Sammy came closer, he could see the fantastic glint in his eye.

Sammy glared with all the wrath of 4977 heavy-set tricky toads. He said, in hushed tones, "I hate you and I want Baby Jack."

Gilfred looked back, even more concerned and still fingering the slimy candlestick. "Sammy, baby Jack is mine," he replied.

They looked at each other with enraged feelings, like two prickly, panicky parakeets fighting at a very irresponsible tax day, which had smooth jazz music playing in the background and two furtive uncles stabbing to the beat.

Suddenly, Sammy lunged forward and tried to punch Gilfred in the face. Quickly, Gilfred grabbed the slimy candlestick and brought it down on Sammy's skull.

Sammy's hairy arm trembled and his lame foot wobbled. He looked depressed, his emotions raw like a thundering, tan television.

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

Gilfred Golly went back inside and made himself a nice drink of neat whiskey.