If Weasels Could Talk

“Hello there Guvnor”, the furry faced little weasel said to me one foggy day in London.

I stopped in my tracks, bumpershoot in hand, shaking off the rain.
“Whoa there you chalky faced git, you’re gettin me fur all wet”, this ratlike thing bellowed at me.
“Excuse me,” I said flabbergasted that this wet greyish ugly creature was speaking, and so rudely without cause to me, “It’s raining out you filthy twit”, I yelled, “you were wet long before I crossed your path, be gone you mangy beast.”
The thing all funky smelling and hissing, lunged at me, I ran and slipped in a puddle. I must be dreaming I thought, it must have been the bangers and mash I had last night at the Clancy’s Pub, that or the stale warm beer. Either way this thing, nightmare or real wasn’t going to take me down without a fight.
Using my bumpershoot as a sword I athletically danced about the soaked rodent in Crouching Tiger moves.

The weasel was ready for me. It stood on its hind legs, stared menacingly at me, fangs bared. I hit it and it died.

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