The Snow that Flurried like Singing Kittens

Tom Randall had always loved damp Cambridge with its quaint, queasy quarries. It was a place where he felt angry.

He was a violent, selfish, beer drinker with pointy fingers and short moles. His friends saw him as a wonky, wandering wally. Once, he had even brought a misty owl back from the brink of death. That's the sort of man he was.

Tom walked over to the window and reflected on his wild surroundings. The snow flurried like singing kittens.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Hector Humble. Hector was a wild giant with pointy fingers and curvaceous moles.

Tom gulped. He was not prepared for Hector.

As Tom stepped outside and Hector came closer, he could see the obnoxious glint in his eye.

"I am here because I want a kiss," Hector bellowed, in a tight-fisted tone. He slammed his fist against Tom's chest, with the force of 2100 giraffes. "I frigging love you, Tom Randall."

Tom looked back, even more unstable and still fingering the minuscule ruler. "Hector, you must think I was born yesterday," he replied.

They looked at each other with irritable feelings, like two glamorous, greasy guppies boating at a very kind carol service, which had flute music playing in the background and two thoughtful uncles bouncing to the beat.

Tom regarded Hector's pointy fingers and curvaceous moles. He held out his hand. "Let's not fight," he whispered, gently.

"Hmph," pondered Hector.

"Please?" begged Tom with puppy dog eyes.

Hector looked happy, his body blushing like a rotten, ratty ruler.

Then Hector came inside for a nice drink of beer.