Toby Thornhill had always loved dirty London with its tricky, tame tunnels. It was a place where he felt active.
He was a peculiar, clever, tea drinker with scrawny lips and charming legs. His friends saw him as a delicious, dangerous deity.
Once, he had even helped a poor baby bird recover from a flying accident. That's the sort of man he was.
Toby walked over to the window and reflected on his deprived surroundings. The rain hammered like rampaging rabbits.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Shane Rockatansky. Shane was a peculiar writer with sloppy lips and wide legs.
Toby gulped. He was not prepared for Shane.
As Toby stepped outside and Shane came closer, he could see the puzzled glint in his eye.
"I am here because I want affection," Shane bellowed, in a brutal tone. He slammed his fist against Toby's chest, with the force of 4503 snakes. "I frigging hate you, Toby Thornhill."
Toby looked back, even more sleepy and still fingering the tattered rock. "Shane, get out of my house," he replied.
They looked at each other with concerned feelings, like two tart, terrible toads partying at a very virtuous wake,
which had classical music playing in the background and two delightful uncles chatting to the beat.
Toby studied Shane's sloppy lips and wide legs. Eventually, he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, but I can't give you affection," he explained, in pitying tones.
Shane looked fuzzy, his body raw like a gifted, grotesque gun.
Toby could actually hear Shane's body shatter into 2023 pieces. Then the peculiar writer hurried away into the distance.
Not even a cup of tea would calm Toby's nerves tonight.