Randomly generated testing data.
Warwick Noris had always loved sleepy Berlin with its hushed, huge hills. It was a place where he felt healthy.
He was a grateful, sympathetic, cocoa drinker with spiky hands and beautiful elbows. His friends saw him as an adventurous, amused author. Once, he had even helped a rapid kitten cross the road. That’s the sort of man he was.
Warwick walked over to the window and reflected on his grey surroundings. The hail pounded like running kittens.
Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Chantal Meadows. Chantal was a lovable deity with spiky hands and sloppy elbows.
Warwick gulped. He was not prepared for Chantal.
As Warwick stepped outside and Chantal came closer, he could see the light glint in her eye.
“Look Warwick,” growled Chantal, with an admirable glare that reminded Warwick of lovable guppies. “It’s not that I don’t love you, but I want equality. You owe me 5741 gold pieces.”
Warwick looked back, even more relaxed and still fingering the tattered record. “Chantal, d’oh,” he replied.
They looked at each other with anxious feelings, like two melted, mammoth maggots sitting at a very spiteful Christening, which had flute music playing in the background and two thoughtless uncles hopping to the beat.
Suddenly, Chantal lunged forward and tried to punch Warwick in the face. Quickly, Warwick grabbed the tattered record and brought it down on Chantal’s skull.
Chantal’s spiky hands trembled and her sloppy elbows wobbled. She looked sneezy, her wallet raw like a green, gleaming guillotine.
Then she let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Chantal Meadows was dead.
Warwick Noris went back inside and made himself a nice mug of cocoa.
THE END