Verily the sky was blackened by clouds of deadly missiles, each raining devastation upon unsuspecting mortals and innocent mailboxes. Great was the cigarnage so wrought upon the earth in those days. In vain did they hide themselves in their stone shelters, and bury themselves fearfully deep in the earth, for the cunning of their adversaries found them out again and yet again. And the world was filled with the cries of these miserable victims, and the smoke of ruination (and many other marcas too numerous to mention) rose fragrantly above shattered neighborhoods. It was the sweet, savory offering of peace in the evening of the day of destruction. But it was truly no more than a false peace, barely a respite, for the next day dawned as black with flying doom as the one before it. And the Puffers saw it and were unsure whether to be glad or afraid, and so they all simply lit their cigars and sat upon the watchtowers to see what demolition the new day would bring.
What a great short story!
I especially dig the new word; cigarnage!
That is freakin Classic and paints such a lovely scene for us!lap2:
Let's R.G. bomb the Scribe for his fine effort!
Speaking of Short Stories....
"What Could be Finer, than a Spanish Cedar Liner?"