The Minuscule Sandwich
A Short Story
by Myriads
Valerie Peltienne looked at the minuscule sandwich in her hands and felt cross.

She walked over to the window and reflected on her sleepy surroundings. She had always loved dull Bangkok with its magnificent, mammoth mountains. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel cross.

Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Voltaire Cremdor. Voltaire was a gentle banker with hairy spots and slimy elbows.

Valerie gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was a cowardly, hopeful, brandy drinker with charming spots and curvaceous elbows. Her friends saw her as an old, outrageous ogre. Once, she had even rescued a powerless baby from a burning building.

But not even a cowardly person who had once rescued a powerless baby from a burning building, was prepared for what Voltaire had in store today.

The wind blew like running horses, making Valerie jumpy.

As Valerie stepped outside and Voltaire came closer, she could see the cuddly glint in his eye.

"I am here because I want equality," Voltaire bellowed, in a ruthless tone. He slammed his fist against Valerie's chest, with the force of 9998 mice. "I frigging hate you, Valerie Peltienne."

Valerie looked back, even more jumpy and still fingering the minuscule sandwich. "Voltaire, I admire your eyebrows," she replied.

They looked at each other with barmy feelings, like two great, gloopy giraffes dancing at a very snooty Valentine's meal, which had flute music playing in the background and two helpful uncles walking to the beat.

Valerie studied Voltaire's hairy spots and slimy elbows. Eventually, she took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, but I can't give you equality," she explained, in pitying tones.

Voltaire looked worried, his body raw like a nasty, naughty newspaper.

Valerie could actually hear Voltaire's body shatter into 2898 pieces. Then the gentle banker hurried away into the distance.

Not even a glass of brandy would calm Valerie's nerves tonight.

THE END