Children's Short Story - Rancid Rabbit Buys A Shotgun

I wrote this, to see what are my chances at getting an editor, proof-reader and literary agent with a view to writing illustrated short stories for children:

Chapter One

LOCK STOCK AND TWO SMOKING, ...

I took the hexagonal vape and the British American Tobacco Golden Virgina vapes outside.l I walked up past the warehouse at Number Forty Five Clarendon Road, ... I went to https://postal-code.uk/postcode/harrow and invented a new Greater London Borough, but not without the very able assistance of a Teracotta Army and Maya. But, having deeply hurt the feelings of the broken-hearted builder of ugly little firewood sheds in My Beautiful Plus Belle, the world-reknowned bouldering gaff in Laramade d'en Bas, Vicdessos, Tarrascon sur Ariege, France, I found, to my dismay, that I had IN FACT created a whole new Ellstree Studios! The address is Apparently 45 Clarendon Road, Borehamwood, WD6 1BE, UNITED KINGDOM. "Go figure" thought I.

That day I was relieved because I realized we had final cut on The Minotaur shot. I rested, ... with my favourite Gyne-ecologists. Yes, both in fucking Irons!

Chapter Two

PATCH NOTES #4

At least, thought I, we have finally written page one of the goddamned thing!

... BANG!

SHIT! Thought I. I had, up until that point, been careful to shut the door quietly, because my over-worked secretary was sleeping-off a hang-glider in her own darkroom, .... however today, on account of excessive meditations on the part of the Falun Gong, rather inconveniently stationed, though he said so himself, many times, but thankfully and thoughtfully only to himself, taking as blessings his many pains, though self-inflicted, as such things always are  to the kind of man who is given, and I don't use that word advisedly, ever, in fact, in reference to a member of the "Royal" Institute of "British" Builders of shitty little firewood sheds in the Pyrenees, of all places, because the poor fellow, and that _is_ a word I use most assuredly in the advisory voce, for a man who thinks that, without Alzheimers, or even a couple of Rennies, that [and here I find that I am unable to read the next word in my hand-written draft. I feel it ought to be "comprehending" but that is nothing like what I wrote, which looks on the face of to be a new word I invented, namely "sumoing"], let alone reading a sentence [and I see now that I wrote "serving", not "sumoing"] of TWENTY WORDS to be beyond the cognitive abilities of more than half a dozen readers of The Sun newspaper, unfortunatley NOT numbering that illustrous rag's editor amongst, ... well, hardly anything at all, outside number 66 Portland Place, Westminster W1B 1AD!

I then recalled that, against all better advice of none other than the director of "Inland Empire", yes, the man they call David with Elevated Grey Hair, driver of vanloads of fragile crockery, coincidentally available from 45 Claremont Road 'arrow, always to write down one's thoughts as they occur, and not when one is idly contemplating some pleasant event in the immediate presence of the Environment, ...

Peep!

I had, as I recalled, been enjoying a smoke outside the the house we call "The Zoo", located not _too_ far from Number Ten, a ramshackle Victorian cottage with the most charmingly neglected garden, in which grewe there one yewe tree, the succulent soft red berries of which many birds must have drawn their sweet sustenance of, well, at least the first hour of many autumn dayes. The red brick facade of said cottage, possiby I now wonder, made of tales of bricks drawn smoking and radiant from the kiln house on the corner of Old Redding as the road bends up the hill towards the right and onwards, ... ever onwards, as all roads eventually must, marred, yes marred by a white satellite dish upon which a tiny solitary tit had peeped!

So, what is this? Creative writing or creative reading? And what is the difference between the two?

See The Blender.