A small boy of six sat in a regal and ornate armchair. He pointed with his long, thin, spindly finger and solemnly said, "Grandpa, let me tell you a story."
He BECKONED his feeble grandfather to come closer to him, gesturing toward his knee as if to say, "Sit here, upon my knee," but his grandfather shook violently in the corner of the large library. It was 3 AM, and the moon was obscured by clouds. BANG! Lightning struck somewhere nearby. Grandfather died of a heart attack.
"Well fuck my laundry basket and name me Edward," said the small boy, snapping his fingers in disappointment. He shuffled out of his large chair and made his way over to the fire hydrant, where the family kept their undulating laundry baskets. "These laundry baskets..." he muttered, ruffling them up with his toes. "They just won't sit still. They undulate far too frequently. Eliminate them." The boy snapped his fingers, and the undulating laundry baskets were obliterated in a sudden spout of flame. He hobbled awkwardly over to a bookcase (despite his young age, he had severe arthritis), and fondled the many books with his long, spider-like fingers, whispering rapidly in tongues and extending his face to the East.
Suddenly, he heard a knock at the door.
"Fred," he thought. He hurried to the large, looming wooden doors and slammed his body up against them, causing them to burst open and reveal apocalyptic scenery, complete with storms and burning buildings and such. The boy's stomach lurched. He gazed out at the world. "Fred," he thought. His heart was beating faster and faster. He saw the shape off in the distance. It was growing and rising and sprouting appendages, and the boy knew it was coming for him. He stretched his long, spindly fingers out towards the darkness, where lights flashed and sharp piercing wails filled the open sky, and let out a scream that sent chills down the spine of Satan.
But Fred had the final say.
