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Sunday, August 14, 2011

BACK TO FOOTBALL

I realize that this blog isn't that interesting. I don't have any pictures. I'm not as cool as all of you. I hope you're all liking my random stories. I don't hope that you're hating them. My last story stirred up some controversy because no one knew exactly HOW Nicky got back to Safety Town from the kidnapper's house. That mystery was intended. Only YOU can decide how he got back. Mark Twain once said, "The mark of a truly great author is the ability to create mysteries where little boys seemingly have no way of returning back to Safety Town, but somehow, they do." And you don't want to argue with Mark Twain. No sir.

School starts next week. I enjoy learning things. I'm taking difficult bio type classes, with a creative writing class on the side. I quite enjoyed my last creative writing class in high school. Stephen Miller and I did a play about hummus. It made little sense. 


Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Nicky's Adventures at Safety Town

The laughter of children.

The joyous innocent screams of children.

The wailing of a child having hurt himself.

Such were the sounds that reverberated around Safety Town U.S.A.

This particular day was “Stranger Danger Day,” where the children were learning that they should never ever ever talk to anyone they didn’t know. Even if their mom’s long-lost sister Betty came to stay at the house, the children were to avoid speaking to Aunt Betty at all costs.

The children were taking a recess break from all of their learning, running around, screaming, playing on the baby tricycles, and just having a good time practicing safety. One particular boy named Nicky was standing around, having a joyous time, when he was approached by a man he hadn’t seen before.

“Hey kid,” said the man, who looked nice enough. He donned a Chicago Cubs hat, and various other articles of clothing on his body. He also had a nice smile.

“Hi,” said Nicky, all of the day’s “stranger danger” education having gone in one ear and completely out the other apparently.

“Wanna come and get some ice cream with me?” asked the man.

“Yeah okay,” said Nicky.

“Great!” said the man. “My car’s this way!” And he motioned out towards the street.

“I like iced cream,” said Nicky. Strangely enough, nobody else, not even the Safety Town counselors, noticed this happening.

Nicky followed the man across the parking lot, through the gate, and out to the street. The nice man opened up the door for Nicky to get in, who did, indeed, climb in the car. Then the man shut the door.

Nicky sat there and thought to himself as the nice man walked around to the other side. Wow, he thought. Iced cream! My favorite!

The nice man climbed in the car, started it up, and they were off.

“So,” said the nice man. “How does ‘The Ice Cream Shop’ sound?”

“Great!” said Nicky, even though he had never heard of “The Ice Cream Shop,” and “The Ice Cream Shop” actually didn’t exist.

“All righty then,” he said. ”‘The Ice Cream Shop’ it is.”

Nicky could hardly stand it. Not once did he think to question who this man was. All that was on his mind was ice cream.

“Is it all right if we stop by my house first?” asked the man. “I need to get my puppy.”

“Puppy? Oh boy!” said Nicky. Could this day get any better? Puppies and ice cream!

They drove for several more minutes, to the outskirts of town. They pulled up to a nice little house in a quaint little cozy neighborhood.

“Well, here it is,” said the nice man, turning off the car. “I might need some help getting the puppy. Wanna come inside and get the puppy with me?” There was a sparkle in his eye.

“Sure thing mister!” said Nicky, unable to resist that sparkle. 

“And I have candy too,” said the man. “Lots and lots of candy.”

“Candy? Oh boy!” said Nicky. Wow. His friends would never believe this. Never.

Nicky climbed out of the car, and he followed the nice man up to the house, who pulled out his keys and stuck one in the door lock. He twisted. He pulled the key out. He pushed open the door.

And they both walked in.

It wasn’t even three seconds later that 20 cops, seemingly from nowhere, jumped out from hiding in the man’s house, with guns blazing. Hundreds of bullets tore through the man’s flesh. They tore through his face, his abdomen, his foot, and the scaphoid bone on his right hand. The guns continued to blaze for over five minutes, as the nice man’s bullet-riddled body lay on the floor, unmoving, except when the flesh would move because there were bullets tearing through it. Finally, all the cops were out of ammo.

“My ears,” said Nicky, crying, as the firing stopped.

“It’s okay, son,” said Lieutenant Officer Jim, putting his hand on Nicky’s shoulder. “He was gonna do some bad things.”

“I wanted a candy,” said Nicky, and tears began to stream down his cheeks. He began to sob.

Officer Jim walked over to the nice man’s corpse on the floor, checking him over. He checked his pulse. “He’s gone,” he said to himself. “What a mess.”

“I wanted a puppy,” struggled Nicky through his tears.

“It’s okay son,” said one of the other cops. “This man doesn’t even have a puppy. Good work boys! Let’s head out.” And they all left, leaving Nicky standing there with the nice man’s dead body.

Nicky was completely traumatized by the experience, absolutely scarred for the rest of his life. And he had lost all of his hearing in his right ear. When he got back to Safety Town that day, his counselor, Mrs. Bennett, rebuked him. “Nicky, did you go with a stranger?” she asked, anger in her voice.

Nicky began to sob. “I…I…”

“Tell the truth Nicky!” she said sternly.
“I…I…”

“Nicky! TELL THE TRUTH!” she repeated.

“I…I’m tired!” he said.
“NICKY! DON’T YOU LIE TO ME!”

“I’m tired!” he said again, refusing to admit his blunder.

“NICKY VON MARTINEZ!” she yelled, even though “Von Martinez” wasn’t really his last name. But everyone knows that adding a last name to any first name gives the rebuke a more “authoritative touch.”

“WAH!” he cried, his face completely soaked with tears.

And he got in big trouble. The biggest trouble of his life. And his parents grounded him from video games for two weeks.