Sunday was when we went. Dad wanted to leave on Sunday so we could avoid the McDonald family, who spent every Sunday molting on the front lawn. Last year, Mr. McDonald's head fell off. He grew another one the next day. Only now his hair was green and he could shoot laser beams out of his eyes. Also, he shat turnips. But enough of that.
We climbed into the station wagon and turned right onto Fallinott Street. The street was named after Lucas Fallinott, who lived in Detroit. He invented the toothbrush in 1762.
As we drove, we saw Mr. McDonald lumber towards us. He was walking straight at the car. Suddenly, laser beams shot out of his eyes. They went through the windshield and through my dad's neck.
"Blecejheciuged!" my dad screamed. "Bqwdfgofcuyogacecupuugdgtputpg;gugiggyy!!!!" He could not be understood because blood was coming out of the two eyeball-sized holes that had been punched in his larynx.
I asked dad to pull over. He couldn't but only because he was dead. The car entered the ditch. It rolled over once. Then twice. Everyone died except me. I was the only one wearing a seat belt.
"Help!" I said, as I thumped the window glass. "Get me out."
There was some commotion outside the car and then, everything was really hot. Mr. McDonald was cutting a hole in the station wagon using his eyeballs. At last I climbed out. Mr. McDonald stood there, wobbling back and forth. His green mustache stretched down to his shoelaces.
"Thank you!" I said.
"GWAA!" he screamed, and then blasted my head off with his eyeball laser beams. My last thought was this: "I wonder who's on Oprah tomorrow."
Oh boy. Figs!!!