Just Maverick Stirk

Maverick Stirk looked at the big M4A1 in his hands and felt angry.

He walked over to the window and reflected on his evil surroundings. He had always loved tall Athens with its tight, tense towers. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel angry.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Benelli Berretta. Benelli was a bold shotgun with hungry looking hand and well armed trigger finger.

Maverick gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a just, headstrong, gunpowder drinker with tall hand and armed trigger finger. His friends saw him as a racid, red rifle. Once, he had even rescued a tired innocent bistanderd from a burning building.

But not even a just person who had once rescued a tired innocent bistanderd from a burning building, was prepared for what Benelli had in store today.

The hail pounded like shoots dog, making Maverick very hungry.

As Maverick stepped outside and Benelli came closer, he could see the wonderful glint in her eye.

"I am here because I want justice," Benelli bellowed, in a remarkable tone. She slammed her fist against Maverick's chest, with the force of 7336 deer. "I frigging love you, Maverick Stirk."

Maverick looked back, even more very hungry and still fingering the big M4A1. "Benelli, "From. My. Cold. Dead. Hands."," he replied.

They looked at each other with hungry feelings, like two crowded, cool cat fires at a very forgetful battle, which had gunfire music playing in the background and two daring uncles blasts to the beat.

Maverick regarded Benelli's hungry looking hand and well armed trigger finger. He held out his hand. "Let's not fight," he whispered, gently.

"Hmph," pondered Benelli.

"Please?" begged Maverick with puppy dog eyes.

Benelli looked even hungrier, her body blushing like a many, mutated M1911.

Then Benelli came inside for a nice drink of gunpowder.