Two Uncles Yelling to the Beat

Adam looked at the rigid crowbar in his hands and felt angry.

He walked over to the window and reflected on his open surroundings. He had always loved frigid arctic with its shivering, sore snow. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel angry.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Mitchell Shephard. Mitchell was a strong hero with scarred faces and bloody arms.

Adam gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was an evil, good, beer drinker with big faces and muscular arms. His friends saw him as a delightful, decomposing devil. Once, he had even brought an awful fat old Mr. Gaben back from the brink of death.

But not even an evil person who had once brought an awful fat old Mr. Gaben back from the brink of death, was prepared for what Mitchell had in store today.

The snow flurried like running bears, making Adam healthy.

As Adam stepped outside and Mitchell came closer, he could see the plain glint in his eye.

Mitchell glared with all the wrath of 6054 dreadful bad bulls. He said, in hushed tones, "I hate you and I want revenge."

Adam looked back, even more healthy and still fingering the rigid crowbar. "Mitchell, I flipED UP YOUR FACE," he replied.

They looked at each other with sad feelings, like two depressed, doubtful dogs swinging at a very heroic fight, which had djent music playing in the background and two uncles yelling to the beat.

Suddenly, Mitchell lunged forward and tried to punch Adam in the face. Quickly, Adam grabbed the rigid crowbar and brought it down on Mitchell's skull.

Mitchell's scarred faces trembled and his bloody arms wobbled. He looked hurt, his emotions raw like a pretty, powerful pistol.

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

Adam went back inside and made himself a nice drink of beer.