100 days: Day 37


Night of the livid Ned

A pale blue night hung over the town of Fistrim. The streets lay in pristine desertion with the exception of one angry man called Ned who was pacing across an estate, fists clenched, his sporadic sweary yelps breaking the cold silence.

‘Piss,’ he shouted at a passing cross-eyed cat, causing it to dart off into an alleyway. He gave the word more venom than is generally associated with it, trailing off the ‘sss’ sound, ‘pissssss’. These angry stomps were becoming habitual, many a domestic animal had fallen victim to his mild, yet heartfelt cusses. Tonight he’d eaten three Kitcat Chunkies and even that hadn’t quelled his rage. God, or whatever, help whoever crossed his path.

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