Sphere With Blinking Lights

We knew we had something. It sat there, a sphere with blinking lights, and half-molten toy cars attached to it. And there was a sock, hanging from a nail.

“Should we eat it?” My brother was fat.

“You wanna eat it?”

There was green gas coming out of it, through a hole, an outward perforation.

My brother plugged it with his finger for a moment, and it condensed into green moisture, and he licked it. “Tastes like dinosaur.” My brother was mentally retarded.

A woodpecker popped through the hole. I wish it laughed, but instead, coughing up green gas, its feathers flaking like dandruff, and its eyes twitching, it flopped on the floor and died.

“Should we eat it?”


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