The Cursed Sausage

Arthur Crumb looked at the cursed sausage in his hands and felt barmy.

He walked over to the window and reflected on his magical surroundings. He had always hated derelict Shanghai with its damp, defeated ditches. 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 Zach Butterscotch. Zach was a thoughtful juggler with ginger elbows and greasy lips.

Arthur gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a bold, articulate, wine drinker with slimy elbows and chubby lips. His friends saw him as a vague, vast vicar. Once, he had even saved a damp owl that was stuck in a drain.

But not even a bold person who had once saved a damp owl that was stuck in a drain, was prepared for what Zach had in store today.

The sleet rained like talking lizards, making Arthur fuzzy.

As Arthur stepped outside and Zach came closer, he could see the open glint in his eye.

"I am here because I want a phone number," Zach bellowed, in a stupid tone. He slammed his fist against Arthur's chest, with the force of 101 tortoises. "I frigging hate you, Arthur Crumb."

Arthur looked back, even more fuzzy and still fingering the cursed sausage. "Zach, I am your mother," he replied.

They looked at each other with stable feelings, like two horrible, helpless humming birds drinking at a very brave funeral, which had R & B music playing in the background and two rude uncles shouting to the beat.

Suddenly, Zach lunged forward and tried to punch Arthur in the face. Quickly, Arthur grabbed the cursed sausage and brought it down on Zach's skull.

Zach's ginger elbows trembled and his greasy lips wobbled. He looked sneezy, his body raw like a motionless, magnificent map.

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

Arthur Crumb went back inside and made himself a nice glass of wine.