Jehoshaphat drank from the bucket. His hands were shaking. What would Broomhilda think if she found him drinking out of her good bucket?
“This is a big moment,” Jehoshaphat said to no one in particular. Jehoshaphat looked down at the Bible at his side. He sought answers - relief, maybe - but the text wouldn’t explain why he was so connected to the bucket.
Little did he know… that bucket… was his biological second-cousin.
“We’re family,” the bucket said. “there’s nothing wrong with it.”
“I don’t need any input from you, thank you,” Jehoshaphat said, rolling his eyes.
“Of course you do, I’m Mr. Bucket,” Mr. Bucket said. “I’m buckets… of fun.”
Jehoshaphat stared. He looked long and hard at the bucket. His cousin. His now-only friend.
“I prefer Chicken Limbo,” Jehoshaphat admitted.
The bucket sighed. This mention of his ex-wife was unexpected and most unwelcome.
His feelings came rushing back to him, like a liquid being poured out of a bucket… into another bucket… yeah.
“You know what? YOU KNOW WHAT?” Mr. Bucket said. “I’m telling Broomhilda the minute she gets back in.”
Jehoshaphat’s eyes got wide. He knew. He. KNEW.
Little did they know, Broomhilda was off on an adventure of her own… with Chicken Limbo.
But did it matter? Did it really matter, in the end? There was the bucket. There was time.
Buckets of it. Buckets. And buckets.
Jehoshaphat giggled, and giggled. He poured the bucket over his head and giggled furiously. His mouth spewed litres of blood. He kicked off his shoes at the window and shattered the glass.
Sent at 9:59 PM on Thursday
Patrick: hah, this scene got weird
and considering where it started, that is saying something
me: Can I write this up and put it on my Tumblr?
Patrick: hah, sure
if it makes it big, give me co-credit!!!1!
