We drink black pop and stare past the yellow tape. I ask, what do you think happened here? This is how we start the game, the story game. I think the papa bear came back to finish off Goldilocks, you say. He ripped the place apart, ate some Captain Crunch and when he couldn’t find no one with golden hair, he roared, and the roar was so mighty it cracked the ceiling. Now it’s not safe to go in.
You take a long drink and fling the bottle cap through the bars. I hear the ting, ting as it bounces. What do you think happened? I know exactly what happened, I say. I think the stove was too small for Hansel and Gretel and the witch had to cook them one by one. But that meant the oven had to be on all day and all night. It was too much cooking for the oven, and it sparked and shot flames in protest. Why didn’t it hold up signs and bullhorns and march around for a while, you ask. Because ovens don’t have legs, dummy. Oh, right.
So anyway, the witch didn’t have a fire extinguisher, so the walls burned, and the ceiling burned, and part of the roof fell in. I just finished my story when there was a crack so loud it was thunder. Bam and a cloud of ash and dirt blew out the door. Blew right at us. We ran and ran, our sandals slapping like gunfire. Two blocks down we stopped, breathing hard, both of us strangling our pop bottles around the necks.
I ask if you think it was the witch or the bear making thunder? You laugh then burp. You never did answer me.