Alex Foster wore red-white checked pajamas and slept on the top bunk. He woke up August 2 to find the world had gone mad. The alarm clock wouldn't shut up no matter how many times his mom yelled, "turn that damn thing off," and his best friend's corpse lye sideways, eyes shut, three and a quarter feet away.

The cyanide had worked. A-Ha! Alex could claim the insurance. His mother was more skeptical. She didn't keep the evidence; she flushed it down the toilet, saying that's where dead goldfish belonged. Harumpf! The nameless fish swirled around. The boy’s pupils followed around. And around and around. The fish looked alive – was it swimming? -- before it disappeared into the overly oval toilet, taking all the water with it.

She had destroyed the plan. Quick. Maybe there was someway to get the goldfish back before it was pushed through ten, twelve-foot blocks of sand at the water plant. No dead fish could survive that and the insurance company wouldn't accept whatever did survive as evidence. He thought and came up with this zinger, "The fish would have been happier in my bedroom."

It was too late. His mother had already left. She would have no dead fish in her house and no alarm clocks that wouldn't shut up no matter how many times you yelled. Following his mother's example, Alex took the alarm clock still plugged in and flushed it down the toilet where incessant alarm clocks belonged. Harumpf!

This did not work as the cyanide had not worked. His plan to flush the alarm clock was overshadowed by the small hole at the bottom of the toilet that prevented larger objects from being flushed. Water began to flow everywhere. Down the sides of the toilet. Onto the tile floor. Most importantly, into the clock. Sudden jolts danced. The electricity had found a new playground in this under water excursion and was soon jumping around, playing like it was a kid again. ZZzztt. Zzzzt. It yelled with each jump.

Alex was pleased with his creation. His own fireworks show. He called it, "The electric shocker that almost gave mom a heart attack and burnt down the house." A-Ha! He could do this across the world. Think of the dollars, the millions. He didn't need the unnamed goldfish and it's nonexistent insurance company. He had electricity and water. Miracles were about to happen. He could finally afford a prostitute for his father.

His father's birthday was in less than a month and he had wanted to get him something extra special. Watching "Risky Business" with Tom Cruise gave him the idea. The one where Cruise slides across the floor in shades and underwear and a shirt that was later copied in hundreds of movies as gags and most recently in "Never Been Kissed," with David Arquette playing the role. That movie. It was hot and his mother was not.

She was a stern woman of 40 who yelled all day about the two or three or maybe four gray hairs that she demanded she had. No one could see these hairs and if she didn't like them so much, Alex didn't know why she talked about them so much. She drew attention to her faults and yelled at Alex when he nodded his head.

"I'm fat."
Alex nods head.
"You brat! I'm not fat. I’m skin and bones. You never complain about a girl's weight! I'm going to flush you down the toilet where mean children belong. Harumpf!"

And she wasn't fat either. She was just un-muscular. Every diet she had ever been on had been her starving herself, she had never done anything physical enough to actually be healthy and this was of course Alex's fault because he decided to jump into her belly one day and stay there for nine months. This, of course, wasn't her fault for having sex or the fault of the sperm and egg meeting. No. This was Alex's plan from the beginning: to make his mom fatter so she could beat him up for it.

She complained about this constantly and as the years grew more she complained about it even more frequently, which was all the more reason Alex wanted a prostitute to take her place. He could pay her daily to have sex with his dad and cook dinner. His mother did neither. He hadn't found anyone to do this yet, but with his new road show it was a possibility ---

"Alex. Damnit. Get your ass in gear or you'll be late for school."

He might be late for school, but he hadn't said his morning prayers, which were more important than 2nd grade and his mom should know that better than anyone because she was a devout Southern Baptist that said Hell was where Alex would go. God was going to flush Alex down the toilet, Harumpf!, straight to hell for making his mom fat. It was pre-determined. But, Alex figured if there’s a guy that'll sometimes fulfill your requests it was his duty to take advantage.

"Dear Lord, how's it going? I'm sorry I killed my goldfish. Pease help my fish enter heaven. And please help me enter heaven. And please help me get a prostitute for my dad. You probably already knew I was going to say this. So why am I saying this? I don’t know. Do you ever find yourself rambling on to an unknown deity? I do all the time, but you probably already knew that too."

The firework show was still going on in the bathroom ZZzzt Zzzzzt when he finished his prayer. He walked into the hallway, shut the bathroom door and vomited. His whole body lurched forward and he was ill. The world was mad and his stomach seemed upset too.

"Mom," Alex said, "Mom. My stomach hurts. It hurts this much."

She walked over and watched Alex extend his arms far. Very far. To the moon. To the moon and back with sugars and strawberries and other things. An arm sundae. She leaned down, cocked her eyebrow, pressed her lips together tightly, looked suspiciously at his eyes, smirked, blinked twice and slapped Alex's ear. Alex was so concerned with the place she had picked – his ear? – that he wasn’t concerned she slapped him. His ear? As she walked away, she stepped in his vomit and was now trailing it across the gray carpet. Footprint. Footprint. To Alex, this was the greatest justice and he had new hope in God's plan.

Since the current bathroom was occupied with his road show, Alex brushed his teeth in the other bathroom. For 30 seconds. You learn to brush for two minutes. Two minutes was two too long. He brushed for 30 seconds. He decided the night before that his teeth were going to fall out and be replaced soon. So why did he need to brush them for so long? Why? Why? Why? He didn't know. He suspected the dentists of trickery and was going to look for a pen to write this when he remembered he had to go.

The pain in his stomach was increasing. When you feel sick you don't care about eating or drinking or any of that other stuff people usually care so much about. His mom said that she should get sick more often. She'd be skinny for sure that way! Vomit footprints still followed her. He thought if she knew how much his stomach hurt, she wouldn't want to be sick at all.

They walked out of the house. Footprint. Footprint. There was a tarring, an unnerving smell behind them. The smell of burning wood, not just any burning wood, but the Foster house-address-927-Nimbus-Court burning wood. Mother clutched heart; Alex laughed. A-Ha! Think of the insurance on this one!

But, no one had time to think about the insurance on this one because the ground turned into a toilet and flushed them both. Harumpf! The cyanide goldfish remained laughing in the background. For the second coming of Christ, God wanted to try a new angle. The goldfish angle. God decided there was no hope for humanity after living with this family for less than a month and decided to flush the whole world to Hell where bad people belonged. Harumpf!