The cool wind starts to pick up as I walk down the sidewalk. I whistle a cheery tune as I close my eyes. I’ve been down this road a thousand times, I feel safe here. My one whistle turns into two, and then three. Soon there’s a whole chorus of whistles accompanying me. Confused I turn around to see a five men of about 19 years, carrying baseball bats, brbum knuckles and a stapler.

“Halloween was months ago, and Big wasn’t even one of Tom Hanks’ better movies,” I say, remarking on the absurdity of the size of clothing they wear.

The one in the front, with sweat pouring down his brow says, “I know what you did to those children, bumhole!”

Within seconds they’re upon me. I can feel every enraged blow and staple piercing as I fall to my knees. I try to put up more of a fight at crotch level, but it’s to no avail. Their testicles have been hardened by their sheer rage and lust for vengeance. I’m left no choice but to lift my head and cry out. “Please stop! This is not fun for me!”

This seems to tug on their heart strings a bit because they retreat. The one taking up the rear trips on a crack in the sidewalk. I laugh, but I’m in too much pain. I fall to my back. I’m dying.

With my final breath I say, “Well, it could be worse. It could be raining.”

Then I hear it. CRACK! A thunderstorm was upon us.

Then I release my bowels because **** the police. Clean up my ****, you pigs.