Kia Ford: The Hammer Girl's English Premiere Production

A week following Chelsea’s dramatic entertaining performance, Kia Ford continued to talk about the incredible comeback effort featuring traditional successful quality playlists.

“Second half, Chelsea was great,” Kia Ford reminded the Peacock while surveying the courtyard.

“Kia Ford,” the Peacock feeling uncomfortable started.

“Do you think we should get more turf?” Kia Ford searched for opinions thinking constructing additional land could solve problems.

“Kia Ford, you're facing relegation,” the Peacock messengered unwanted news.

“I know,” Kia Ford paused before suggesting, “new tenants may want a larger field to have goal extravaganza music festivals and invite Chelsea next year.”

“Not to say anything about experiencing the blues but,”

“We need to visit Turf More,” Kia Ford insisted.

“And get goals?”

“No,” Kia Ford negatively responded, “purchase claret wine.”

Taking a few moments, interpreting Kia Ford’s decision-making strategy, the Peacock distracted, did not notice the United West Ham disappear, immediately emerging a few minutes later, sporting an innocent white uniform, defining perfect socialization networking outfit attire.

“Now, off to check out new turf and savor a drinking wine afternoon delight,” Kia Ford claimed, and her trusty promotional fowl followed the command, knowing rejecting the proposition was not a realistic possibility.

“This Turf Moor business has the oldest grass; they were the first groundskeeper sellers,” Kia Ford digested the brochure advertisement information.

“Nice pitch,” the Peacock asserted, “they will tell the customer anything,”

Commuting carefully, Kia Ford and the Peacock arrived noticing two arrows pointed, artificial one way and authentic the other, “I want true Verde perfection,” the star-spangled banner firmly chose.

“Verde perfection, red wine, but no goals, typical American,” the dreaming and streaming Peacock mumbled.

“I heard you,” Kia Ford made aware, showing despite listening to many singers her hearing was still intact.

“Kia Ford is that you?”

“Well, if it is not Burnley,” Kia Ford smiled graciously, “why is there so many sales?”

“Like you, I am facing relegation,”

“It is true we are having our problems these days,” Kia Ford admitted, “but today I have a goal, going to Summer Ville, when the relegation situation is decided.”

“Summer Ville, ah huh,” Burnley pondered, “hopefully I can pocket some extra cash before moving to a lower level.”

“That’s an idea,” Kia Ford agreed, “my second goal today, secure the Summer Ville castle and take my Valentine next week during the break.”

“Where are we going?” Interrupted the Peacock.

“To our castle,” Kia Ford paused, “you know the one at Summer Ville.”

“You need goals,” the Peacock angrily spoke.

“I have two today, and these first-class glass sippers laid goose eggs, planning relegation harvests, making them smaller table champions,” Kia Ford stated.

During the second forty-five plus minutes, nothing happened, except Kia Ford white glove inspection, determining different turf shades, while enjoying a claret wine sample.

“Guess I will just take this wine to go and the three points,” Kia Ford mentioned, wishing Burnley safe travels.

Finally, home, the Peacock stopped Kia Ford, preventing an all-American swift English Premiere Estates entrance, “you have a castle where?” Questioned the Peacock.

“Summer Ville,” Kia Ford politely answered.

“And this pair can get goals?”

“Yeah,” affirmatively acknowledged Kia Ford, turning the key, “I think someone is here.”

Flipping the light switch revealed, a satanic figure couch sitting, “I hear you have relegation needs,” the darkened voice delivered a sinister message.

“Red Devil?” Kia Ford inquired.

“Hammer girl, don’t worry, relegation will soon be here,” the Red Devil announced, “and if I can assist, please let me know if you want to relocate down below.”