It was a wrong number that started it, the

It was a wrong number that started it, the telephone ringing three times in the dead of night, and the voice on the other end rasping out. "It's done. Check postbox 23 in Hamsted."

five minutes later in Hamsted, three hundred constables specially deputed by Scotland Yard searched desperately for the mysterious parcel in a post box. But there was no number 23

. The numbers ended at 22. An angry fog enveloped Scotland Yard. Like ants, detectives fiddled with the mysterious box trying to unlock its secrets. No one could make heads or

nor tails of the mysterious box. The detectives at Scotland Yard called for emergency doughnuts to help crack open the box with the massive weight of their expanding bellys. "Push

harder" the chief inspector yelled, and threw himself on the pile of obese detectives, "I know how to crack a suspect!" And with a squeak, the mysterious box under them split open.

It had bags of mud chips that were so stale it wasn't funny anymore. Aunt Mildred had died and forgotten all about them. Holding his nose, the chief inspector took them outside.

The sunshine was warm and bright, and they understood why their aunt had been willing to sacrifice herself so that the others could see the sky.

A rocket flew past them at breakneck speeds, slamming into the sun. They knew their Aunt's sacrifice was for nothing, as Earth was whiplashed off into space.

Their uncle fixed himself a cup of coffee and sat on the front porch, watching the universe blast by. It made him a little dizzy, but then so did whiskey, so it wasn't so bad.