"All right, son. Where'd you hide the body?" Sheriff Braxton demanded, his face screwed up into what he thought was a mask of fatherly concern but was more like Pennywise from "It" . Sheriff Braxton's eyes gleamed madly. His son said, "Is that really how you're going to do the interrogation?" Sheriff Braxton knew what was coming, so he heaved a sigh. "Yes," the Braxton replied. The interrogation went swimmingly. Literally. By the time he was done, his son had reported him for waterboarding. Government officers marched in and awarded The Braxton a medal for his devotion to the Cause. They also gave the Braxton's waterboarded son a medal for not caving into his father's demands. Then they asked for recon ciliation. The Braxton refused. "After all I have been through, you think to appease me with the same medal you gave my catsup eating son!? I only slightly waterboarded him. He har -dly saw my fist slam up from the table to wipe sweat from my eye. "That fire there is still too hot, you know? When is anyone going to actually move and put it out?" he breathed. I leaned back in my chair, two of its legs in the air. I crossed my arms behind my head, elbows pointing skywards. "Well, I sure as hell ain't moving," I declared. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye as he stormed off, exasperated. "Schmuck," I thought to myself as I gazed back up at the sky. Somehow I had missed the mushroom cloud that had risen above, a silvery swirling dangerous shadow that swelled faster than puff pastry; a now yellowish-gray egg pie oxidizing before my eyes, and then turning into olive-green snowflakes falling like manna from Heaven. Then it began to rain delicate liverwurst slices and globs of Cool Whip. I grabbed with one hand and stuffed the combo into my mouth. Then I puked.

 

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