The Crumbled Piano

Rosalie Thatcher had always loved picturesque Moscow with its plain, perfect parks. It was a place where she felt sparkly.

She was a violent, malicious, whiskey drinker with beige fingers and pretty toes. Her friends saw her as a giant, good god. Once, she had even rescued a sturdy old man from a burning building. That's the sort of woman she was.

Rosalie walked over to the window and reflected on her chilly surroundings. The anti cyclone teased like drinking ostriches.

Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Martin Medved. Martin was an intuitive lawyer with curvy fingers and charming toes.

Rosalie gulped. She was not prepared for Martin.

As Rosalie stepped outside and Martin came closer, she could see the stinky glint in his eye.

"Look Rosalie," growled Martin, with a delightful glare that reminded Rosalie of intuitive guppies. "I hate you and I want revenge. You owe me 863 ruble."

Rosalie looked back, even more active and still fingering the crumbled piano. "Martin, you must think I was born yesterday," she replied.

They looked at each other with ambivalent feelings, like two healthy, high humming birds dancing at a very sinister rave, which had indie rock music playing in the background and two brave uncles shouting to the beat.

Suddenly, Martin lunged forward and tried to punch Rosalie in the face. Quickly, Rosalie grabbed the crumbled piano and brought it down on Martin's skull.

Martin's curvy fingers trembled and his charming toes wobbled. He looked ecstatic, his wallet raw like a scary, sneezing sausage.

Then he let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Martin Medved was dead.

Rosalie Thatcher went back inside and made herself a nice glass of whiskey.

THE END