tennessee 2:3

A festive buffet of spark showers, spinners and dynamite in fractions spread out before us, myriad colors depicting the multifarious fire we would descend upon the world, all heaped and displayed on porcelain-white tables with mirrors duplicating the possibilities ad infinitum. At this command center for the backyard apocalypse, Jack was beside himself. He picked up a replica of the first hydrogen bomb, a sort of small-time firecracker and sparkler variety show packed in red waxpaper with one fuse. I will rule the world, he shouted. Not bad for fifteen bucks, I figured, but that's a lot of money for one fuse. I steered him toward what'd caught my own fancy, a gross of bottle rockets. Think of it, one-hundred and forty-four zip-cracking moments of fun for five dollars. Yeah, said Jack, the maleable world dictator. Back on the road, Jack shot the rockets out the window using the cigarette lighter. He disregarded the pertinent laws forbidding such practices. He was not my child. I noted the dryness of the surrounding foliage.

move on...