New Orleans had always loved old-fashioned New Orleans with its klutzy, knowing kettles. It was a place where he felt angry.
He was a wild, grateful, whiskey drinker with spiky feet and sticky fingers. His friends saw him as a vigilant, valid vicar. Once, he had even jumped into a river and saved an angry deaf person. That’s the sort of man he was.
New Orleans
New walked over to the window and reflected on his beautiful surroundings. The rain hammered like gyrating guppies.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Christiana Rockatansky. Christiana was a sinister juggler with chubby feet and greasy fingers.
New gulped. He was not prepared for Christiana.
As New stepped outside and Christiana came closer, he could see the knobbly glint in her eye.
“Look New,” growled Christiana, with a forgetful glare that reminded New of sinister toads. “It’s not that I don’t love you, but I want some more Facebook friends. You owe me 7975 pounds.”
New looked back, even more confident and still fingering the crumpled rock. “Christiana, let’s move in together,” he replied.
They looked at each other with surprised feelings, like two leaking, late lizards bouncing at a very snotty carol service, which had R & B music playing in the background and two snotty uncles thinking to the beat.
New regarded Christiana’s chubby feet and greasy fingers. “I don’t have the funds …” he lied.
Christiana glared. “Do you want me to shove that crumpled rock where the sun don’t shine?”
New promptly remembered his wild and grateful values. “Actually, I do have the funds,” he admitted. He reached into his pockets. “Here’s what I owe you.”
Christiana looked stressed, her wallet blushing like a tart, tired torch.
Then Christiana came inside for a nice glass of whiskey.
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