Leslie awoke with a strange sensation to bite himself, so he did, as he was able to reach his nether-regions, he spasmed with fear and confusion. His blotchy hair, his long snout, his elongated canines', and his loss of the English language forced Leslie to react accordingly. Leslie, soaked in a sensation of an enigma, cryptically ran down the abandoned stairs; as his nails clicked and clacked down, he was greeted by two homeless men with only one word leaving their chapped fungicide coated lips, "FOOD." Leslie, trying to explain, told his fellow hobos that was him, but his cries were muffled by his new language "WOOF WOOF WOOF." As they dragged closer and closer, Leslie had no choice but to run. As Leslie barreled down the streets of Detroit, begging whom ever he crossed for help, he was just simply kicked and occasionally spat on by the common folk of the streets. Leslie then went after food, and the only thing available to him for his lack of thumbs was the same as when he had thumbs: garbage. After feasting on the left overs of P.F Chang's, Leslie curled down in the alley next to the trash cans and slept.
No comments:
Post a Comment