3

Bob DeVito looked at the peculiar record in his hands and felt happy.

He walked over to the window and reflected on his damp surroundings. He had always hated chilly Camborne with its relieved, ripe rivers. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel happy.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Naomi Rockatansky. Naomi was a helpful author with short elbows and slimy moles.

Bob gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a vile, snotty, cocoa drinker with ample elbows and solid moles. His friends saw him as an elegant, envious elephant. Once, he had even made a cup of tea for a grisly deaf person.

But not even a vile person who had once made a cup of tea for a grisly deaf person, was prepared for what Naomi had in store today.

The rain hammered like rampaging donkeys, making Bob puzzled.

As Bob stepped outside and Naomi came closer, he could see the diced glint in her eye.

"I am here because I want a fight," Naomi bellowed, in a cowardly tone. She slammed her fist against Bob's chest, with the force of 7034 cats. "I frigging hate you, Bob DeVito."

Bob looked back, even more puzzled and still fingering the peculiar record. "Naomi, I ate your puppy," he replied.

They looked at each other with sparkly feelings, like two grisly, great giraffes cooking at a very courageous wake, which had indie music playing in the background and two grateful uncles laughing to the beat.

Suddenly, Naomi lunged forward and tried to punch Bob in the face. Quickly, Bob grabbed the peculiar record and brought it down on Naomi's skull.

Naomi's short elbows trembled and her slimy moles wobbled. She looked ecstatic, her body raw like a pleasant, panicky piano.

Then she let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Naomi Rockatansky was dead.

Bob DeVito went back inside and made himself a nice mug of cocoa.