Mr. Billington

Adam Billiington, a twenty-five-year-old Scotch-German with black hair was running at the speed of fifteen miles per hour, far far away from the fair where they sold reprehensible cotton candy. He was running almost as fast as a car traveling in the jurisdiction of an urban area. Beside him he passed a person who was jogging.1

He immediately turned around and ran at the person screaming, "I hate joggers! You're jay-jogging! I'm the police on feet. Achilles' little helper, if you will, just like Santa's little helpers." 2

"Jogging? That's a relative term," said Mr. Jogger. "To you, I'm jogging. To me, I'm running. Now, kindly, fuck off!"3

Being a lover of the occasional play, Mr. Billington took out a candy apple and stuck it up his ass. "I will fuck off indeed!" he said. 4

"How do you fit a candy apple in your ass? Isn't it all sticky?" said Mr. Jogger-that-is-relatively-a-runner, jogging off. 5

"It's quite simple! You wrap it up! Even candy apples need condoms! Last thing we want is some virus in stems owning the Earth!" he yelled back.6

The Jogger-or-was-it-Runner turned back at him and bit his thumb at Mr. Billington.7

Mr. Billington blew up. He hated bad Shakespeare. He quickly jayran across the street to go after the thumb biting bastard--but was suddenly hit by a van traveling upwards at speeds of forty miles or more. 8

Mr. Billington awoke in the hospital. "He bit his thumb at me!" he yelled through bloody teeth, once coming awake. 9

The nurse had a wild look in her eyes. Her eyes gleamed yellow like a wolf's. She shut the curtains and the door, making meek light against those eyes, and brandished a needle like it was her lovely manicured finger. "It's time to go to sleep my pretty."