JEFF HARVEY looked at the weathered record in his hands and felt healthy.

He walked over to the window and reflected on his backward surroundings. He had always loved SAD LONDON with its greasy, gigantic GLASS. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel healthy.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of BOB HARVEY. BOB was a splendid saint with brown moles and brunette abs.

JEFF gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a spiteful, cowardly, port drinker with red moles and hairy abs. His friends saw him as a doubtful, deafening dolphin. Once, he had even jumped into a river and saved an impossible puppy.

But not even a spiteful person who had once jumped into a river and saved an impossible puppy, was prepared for what BOB had in store today.

The clouds danced like singing maggots, making JEFF anxious.

As JEFF stepped outside and BOB came closer, he could see the heavy glint in his eye.

BOB glared with all the wrath of 7359 witty comfortable cats. He said, in hushed tones, “I hate you and I want LOVE.”

JEFF looked back, even more anxious and still fingering the weathered record. “BOB, I LOVE YOU,” he replied.

They looked at each other with calm feelings, like two mutated, melodic mice laughing at a very thoughtful wedding, which had piano music playing in the background and two clever uncles boating to the beat.

JEFF studied BOB’s brown moles and brunette abs. Eventually, he took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” began JEFF in apologetic tones, “but I don’t feel the same way, and I never will. I just don’t hate you BOB.”

BOB looked anxious, his emotions raw like a rabblesnatching, racid record.

JEFF could actually hear BOB’s emotions shatter into 6355 pieces. Then the splendid saint hurried away into the distance.

Not even a glass of port would calm JEFF’s nerves tonight.

THE END