Vanderbrew

He stood in the shadows, watching, while cold rain dripped from the metal staircase to spot his scuffed leather jacket.

“Whoa, dude, where’d you get the idea to make a bong out of that?”

“Hey lummox, it ain’t done wit a knife!”

The old man stumbled across the moonlit snowfield, straining to hear any sounds of pursuit.

The car’s headlights blinded Frank as he walked around it.

“Character assassination is a delicate task.”

“And how would you like your news today, sir? Liberal bias? Conservative slant? Independent streak?”

Brandon’s coffee cup shattered as he set it down.

Standing hunched over the body of the unmoving salaryman, Harvard Oxford Princeton Oliver The Third felt even more than usual that he’d let his parents down.

“Dear me, I am terribly sorry for bleeding all over your floor like this.”