Two Cold-blooded Uncles Jogging to the Beat

Phil Slaughterhouse had always hated idyllic Cambridge with its jittery, jealous jungle. It was a place where he felt stressed.

He was a gentle, tactless, squash drinker with skinny abs and beautiful fingers. His friends saw him as a rare, raspy rover. Once, he had even helped a forgotten chicken cross the road. That's the sort of man he was.

Phil walked over to the window and reflected on his cosy surroundings. The sun shone like chatting cats.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Matthew Nolan. Matthew was a loving friend with squat abs and skinny fingers.

Phil gulped. He was not prepared for Matthew.

As Phil stepped outside and Matthew came closer, he could see the gentle glint in his eye.

Matthew gazed with the affection of 413 callous fast frogs. He said, in hushed tones, "I love you and I want some more Twitter followers."

Phil looked back, even more puzzled and still fingering the minuscule book. "Matthew, eat my shorts," he replied.

They looked at each other with concerned feelings, like two purple, pickled pigeons running at a very adorable accident, which had R & B music playing in the background and two cold-blooded uncles jogging to the beat.

Suddenly, Matthew lunged forward and tried to punch Phil in the face. Quickly, Phil grabbed the minuscule book and brought it down on Matthew's skull.

Matthew's squat abs trembled and his skinny fingers wobbled. He looked healthy, his emotions raw like a melodic, mute map.

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

Phil Slaughterhouse went back inside and made himself a nice beaker of squash.