Clarke McCallister looked at the ripped sandwich in his hands and felt lonely.

He walked over to the window and reflected on his crowded surroundings. He had always hated dull Los Angeles with its watery, wonky waters. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel lonely.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Phillip Olsson. Phillip was a violent juggler with scrawny legs and curvy toenails.

Clarke gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a rude, hungry, whiskey drinker with wide legs and dirty toenails. His friends saw him as a knobby, kooky knight. Once, he had even helped a gigantic injured bird recover from a flying accident.

But not even a rude person who had once helped a gigantic injured bird recover from a flying accident, was prepared for what Phillip had in store today.

The snow flurried like rampaging foxes, making Clarke sparkly.

As Clarke stepped outside and Phillip came closer, he could see the boiled smile on his face.

"I am here because I want justice," Phillip bellowed, in a callous tone. He slammed his fist against Clarke's chest, with the force of 2937 puppies. "I frigging hate you, Clarke McCallister."

Clarke looked back, even more sparkly and still fingering the ripped sandwich. "Phillip, I just don't need you in my life any more," he replied.

They looked at each other with concerned feelings, like two crooked, concerned cats sleeping at a very daring birthday party, which had flute music playing in the background and two controlling uncles dancing to the beat.

Suddenly, Phillip lunged forward and tried to punch Clarke in the face. Quickly, Clarke grabbed the ripped sandwich and brought it down on Phillip's skull.

Phillip's scrawny legs trembled and his curvy toenails wobbled. He looked irritable, his body raw like a thirsty, tan teapot.

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

Clarke McCallister went back inside and made himself a nice glass of whiskey.


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