Kia Ford Attending The English Premiere Festivities

Despite the blazing sunshine, the Peacock grabbed a flashlight from the cabinet before confronting the courtyard invasion. Slowly stepping, investigating a curious incident plaguing the pleasant peaceful Sunday afternoon, the internationally recognized visual distributor, safely guarded the territory.

“Who goes there?” Requested the protective fowl, flaunting technicolor feathers.

“It’s just me,”

“Who are you?” The Peacock strategically followed up.

“Old Trafford,”

“Old?” The Peacock seemed stunned, “you do not look that old.”

Emerging from the bushes, a white wearing ensemble runway model image strutted, “I live the good life,”

“What can I do for you?” The Peacock offered, ignoring the prideful statement.

“Does someone named Kia Ford reside here?”

“Yes, in fact she does, right inside,”

Escorting the well-endowed gentlemen into the flat, the Peacock announced, “Kia Ford, Old Trafford is here to see you.”

Leaving the kitchen, the property’s proprietor wiped her hands with her personalized dishrag, “Old,” suddenly pausing seeing the formally dressed casted character.

“Trafford,” the charismatic deceptive demonic, tipped his chapeau, calculating when true colors would fly.

“Yes,” Kia Ford came back to the greeting, “Old Trafford, I was expecting someone more mature, stoic in nature.”

“I grew up,” Old Trafford grinned, “can’t you see?”

“Lovely,” Kia Ford responded, “what can I do for you?”

“Lily White who is now hanging out over at the Crystal Palace told me you were looking for goals,”

“I know,” Kia Ford sighed, “the day is almost half over, and I do not have any goals but,”

“But neither do I,” Old Trafford comfortably laughed, “so we are level.” Accepting the fact Kia Ford received another mission, the Peacock naturally defended the home turf, monitoring Old Trafford’s moves. “What are you doing these days?” Old Trafford inquired as the Peacock listened.

“I have a screaming side hustle,” The Peacock answered, “I scream a little bit here and a little bit there.”

“That sounds interesting,” Old Trafford kindly acknowledged, “what is this?”

“Apparently, the former owner Porsche Man left it behind,”

“What is it? Seriously,”

“We think it is the official Bowen shrine,”

“What does it do?”

“If you turn the gizmo on things get filled with hillarity,” the Peacock mentioned.

“Turn what on?” Kia Ford interrupted.

“Try putting a quarter in,” the Peacock clarified.

“Oh yeah,” Kia Ford laughed, “with the distracting bubbles, things sure do get radical around here.”

Old Trafford found himself getting lured into a festive setting, staying focused still wanting a powerful pitch opportunity, “I know where you can get a goal,” he suggested,

“Where?”

“Take a trip to Summerville, it is warm all the time,”

“Summerville? And how can I get a goal there?”

“All you have to do is go, kick things around and a goal will find you.”

“That seems to be a practical future plan,” Kia Ford declared making the thought her daily achievement, enjoying the top spot, until noticing Old Trafford change into a grotesque three headed red devil monster.

“Old Trafford!” Kia Ford screamed, “you are a three headed red devil monster.”

“And I have a goal!” Old Trafford exclaimed showing his sinister side, “filed away safely in my case mano.”

“Your case mano?”

“Yes, my man case.” Old Trafford described his trusty satchel.

Not panicking Kia Ford ventured over to the Julie Bowen shrine, desperately seeking advice, “what should I do?”

“Get him to foul,” the symbolic tribute instructed, and just like that the Old Trafford known in many parts as ‘the red Devil’ made a fatal error.

“You see what happened,” the Bowen Shrine pointed out, “he made a mistake. And you got a goal.”

“Along with the three points to get a better seat at the table.”

Realizing the defeat card dealt Old Trafford turned invisible, nowhere could the fantasy brand name be seen.

“Where did he go?” Kia Ford questioned seeing the Peacock shoulders shrug, “look there’s a bag of tricks, go see what the contents are.”

Calmly opening the burlap pouch, the Peacock revealed the remains of the aging Ten Hag. “Kia Ford,” the Peacock stumbled explaining, “Ten Hag got sacked.”

“Does that mean there are only nine hags?” Peered Kia Ford catching a youthful shadow entering the tricky tree forest, rustling their late afternoon siesta.

“Where is he going?” Kia Ford wondered.

“Searching for three points,” the Peacock illuminated the darkness, confidence abound.