Birth Certificate

Who's to say the animal won't tear the carpet from under your toes, wriggling senselessly, just like your tongue when you struggle like a beached whale for words. Poor, importunate wishes ripping at your mind, brains seeping out onto the carpet. Chimpanzee's will rule the day once again when Farmer John decides to move his half-ass tractor out of the half-paved road.

"Today," states Farmer John, "Today is the day of the big cook-off." The seemingly gigantic crowd of one very large fat man screams in agony as his heart bursts into a small puddle of blood, making the ground gleam red.

"I was wond'ring if you didn't have some penny candies," the tiny boy with the large, shrunken head frowned in dismay as he realized the shopkeeper was dead, covered in a puddle of sweat, blood seeping from his eyes and ears. "I've got no penny candies," the shopkeep grunted in pain as the words erupted from his mouth, sending a small squirt of red liquid into the counter.

"PENNY CANDIES, GET YOUR PENNY CANDIES." The man on the side of the road swung a bag of penny candy over his head, yelling in excitement, and in anticipation of the next small toothbrush, ready and rearing to get some half-ass penny candy.

"Today, my son," said Farmer John, as his face began to grow pale. "Today is the day we get you a Motorcycle, one that'll drive 3 miles and break down and kill you." The boy wept as his father swung the flail half-heartedly, but just hard enough to smash the bone from the top of his head.

The scream errupted from within' the small market. "HE'S GOT A GUN!" A woman roared and pulled a tiny derringer from her back pocket. "DIE YOU SON OF A GUN!" The fat, roaring woman unleashed a small, contained burst of fire into the large crowd of innocent bystanders, recieving a few glares, and some blood.

Who's to say the animal won't tear the carpet from under you toes, little boy's and girl's. Who's to say he won't figure you're a good snack. Who's to say that when you finally get a chance to find out, it's too late.