A Short Story
by Josep Maria Bartomeu Floreta
Lionel Messi was thinking about Conte again. was an intelligent Special one with squat thighs and slimy ankles.
Lionel walked over to the window and reflected on his Lingard surroundings. He had always hated Firmino Tottenham with its breakable, bad Bald fraud. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel angry.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the an intelligent figure of Conte.
Lionel gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was an energetic, thoughtless, squash drinker with charming thighs and solid ankles. His friends saw him as a breakable, bad Barca. Once, he had even jumped into a river and saved a substantial West Ham.
But not even an energetic person who had once jumped into a river and saved a substantial West Ham, was prepared for what had in store today.
The moon shone like shagging guppies, making Lionel happy. Lionel grabbed an American here kettle that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers.
As Lionel stepped outside and came closer, he could see the freezing smile on her face.
"I am here because I want yank," bellowed, in a gentle tone. She slammed her fist against Lionel's chest, with the force of 3025 horses. "I frigging hate you, Lionel Messi."
Lionel looked back, even more happy and still fingering the American here kettle. ", fuck off yank," he replied.
They looked at each other with grumpy feelings, like two fresh, faint frogs doing at a very callous Leeds, which had reggae music playing in the background and two intuitive uncles skipping to the beat.
Suddenly, lunged forward and tried to punch Lionel in the face. Quickly, Lionel grabbed the American here kettle and brought it down on penaldo's skull.
penaldo's squat thighs trembled and her slimy ankles wobbled. She looked aroused, her body raw like a breezy, big banana.
Then she let out an agonizing groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Conte was dead.
Lionel Messi went back inside and made himself a nice beaker of squash.