Barnabee Thatchen

Barnabee Thatchen's Fish Bucket
Was pure, unadulterated malevolence
It hungered for blood
It cried out for chaos
It cared for no soul
For it had no soul of its own
Sadly without any hands or legs
And no sharp edges to speak of
The worst it could offer
Was to temporarily pinch one of your fingers
With its wobbly handle