Adamant that a friendly game of curling could settle all spatiotemporal rivalries, a pacifying gunslinger, halfway through a leap of faith, wondered whether the most enjoyable symptoms always paved the way for a venereal disease. He was, after all, battling with the lemons and poppy seeds of a prolonged existential identity crisis. After half-baking his heart in a discarded shovel and firing off hundreds of below-average prosaic text messages to a doormat, he tumbled down a loophole and dozed off.
Six months later, he woke up to find a well-spoken goose throttling his throat, calmly whispering in his ear, “You’re too fat a fuck to fit in your floral flannel fleece.” Flattered yet slightly taken aback by such a mastery of alliteration, he flipped a copper-nickel coin and replied, “I always knew you were the best of my forty-six constellations.” There was a sudden flash of light, colourful rays burst out of a tinsel shower, and the temperature of the universe fell to his knees for the tragic morning prayer.
This brief but intense romance had been nothing more than a hindrance to his lifelong dream of applying his gun-toting expertise to curing geriatric melancholy. Left with no other choice, he packed up his yoga mat, slipped on his replica space suit, and resumed his search for centenarians with comb-overs moulded with enough hair gel to spark a leftist revolution from the grassroots. Nearby, his trademark battle cry, “Two bees, please!” rang out from his sedated supporters.
The impending revival of the Poseidon handshake no longer infuriated its most notable proponents, allowing the atmosphere’s inhospitable temperature to regain a normal glucose level. Shedding a few feathers to mimic a high-speed chase in a stolen honeycomb, the ugly duckling was nevertheless forced to retreat and establish its headquarters in a spam folder. Soon after, it is believed to have passed away from a fair trade penis enlargement, rebel-held inheritance and nicotine-free soy shampoo overdose.