There was a deer in the kitchen that shot lasers out of its eyes. Having lived on the edge of a national forest for my whole life, I was used to deer, although not in the house. It was the laser part that threw me for a loop, especially when it used them to set fire to the mantelpiece. I didn’t know whether to save my late grandmother’s collection of porcelain replicas of the animals of the Serengeti or pee my pants. After ducking and huddling, because laser deer are like nuclear bombs, I caught my breath long enough for me to realize if the flames spread, that would’ve been problematic, especially considering my parents never left their room. I ran to the garage and grabbed a fire extinguisher. On my way back, I crashed into the deer; the collision sent one of its legs skittering back into the kitchen. It was then that I realized something was drastically wrong, because, frankly, that shouldn’t happen.
Okay so it wasn’t a deer so much as it was a robotic death machine parading as a deer, but I didn’t have time to freak out about that yet, because the fire was already at the bookshelves next to the fireplace, where there were pictures of Tony and I, back before he went the way of my parents and locked himself in his room for the most part. I sprayed the fire until it was nothing more than a wall of snowy white gunk covering the lions and giraffes. By the time I turned around, the Robo-Rudolph had hobbled its way out the door, but its leg was kicking the pantry door.
Oobzie Daizy 