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Story No. 314
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There was a dog named horace who stomped in puddles of porridge
-like goo, the kind that comes when you blow your nose after a particularly nasty cold
there was only one thing to do. Rooting in his medicine draw for a pack of Beecham Max, he instead found a tightly wrapped bundle of brown heroin. It was his dad's secret stash!! Now there was a cure for the common cold that would benefit all of mankind!
And so he applied a thin layer of polish to his tiny leather coffin.
Surrounded by blubbing mice, with waistcoats and tiny tiny willies. Cock Robin kept apologising but everyone knew he did it on purpose. Denial was useless and the vigilant gang were already on the streets, baying for his blood
through a small cone she'd found in a charity shop for fifty pence. It was quite a nice cone, although unfortunately much of the ice-cream had melted and now it was a bit soggy, muting the trumpet sounds and lending quite a late-night jazz-feel to the ba
arkaya
Arthur Lee
Crowfeeder
Raaaa
