Talking Tom was thinking about Freddy Fazbear again. Freddy was a witty coward with moist thighs and greasy fingers.
Talking walked over to the window and reflected on his damp surroundings. He had always loved deserted Liverpool with its tiny, troubled tunnels. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel sneezy.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the a witty figure of Freddy Fazbear.
Talking gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a hungry, smelly, squash drinker with wobbly thighs and skinny fingers. His friends saw him as an annoying, anxious annoying. Once, he had even revived a dying, kitten.
But not even a hungry person who had once revived a dying, kitten, was prepared for what Freddy had in store today.
The sleet rained like shouting cats, making Talking worried. Talking grabbed a peculiar knife that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers.
As Talking stepped outside and Freddy came closer, he could see the cuddly glint in his eye.
Freddy glared with all the wrath of 1699 stingy melted mice. He said, in hushed tones, "I hate you and I want love."
Talking looked back, even more worried and still fingering the peculiar knife. "Freddy, eat my shorts," he replied.
They looked at each other with lonely feelings, like two freshly-squeezed, flat frogs dancing at a very clumsy accident, which had jazz music playing in the background and two special uncles loving to the beat.
Talking studied Freddy's moist thighs and greasy fingers. Eventually, he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," began Talking in apologetic tones, "but I don't feel the same way, and I never will. I just don't hate you Freddy."
Freddy looked surprised, his emotions raw like a grated, graceful gun.
Talking could actually hear Freddy's emotions shatter into 7670 pieces. Then the witty coward hurried away into the distance.
Not even a beaker of squash would calm Talking's nerves tonight.
