Basquiat yanked the rabbit from the hat. He checked for ticks and put it back. In the corner sat Jat, laundering Basquiat’s cravat. Basquiat chucked the hat at poor Jat; the rabbit arced out and came down with a splat.

“Clean that,” growled Basquiat. Old Jat did just that, asking that Basquiat lift his black boots off the mat.

“Less chitchat than that, muskrat,” came Basquiat’s brickbat.

Well, that was that. “This autocrat brat is due a hard twat,” thought the doormat Jat. But a twat of what format? Sabotage the thermostat? A cricket bat up the habitat? Chuck him off the ziggurat and leave him for the rats? No, not that brand of combat. Jat fancied a bit of tit-for-tat, so he shat in Basquiat’s cravat, ironed it flat, and left it for the aristocrat to find under his placemat.

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