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Jonathan Blackthorne groggily opened the front door and went to get the paper. Morning mist still permeated the streets, tinting the world slightly blue. After a few minutes of searching, he found the paper nestled in the flowerbed along the side of the house.

Huh, he thought, going to retrieve it. Paper kid's getting better.

Last time the boy had managed to toss the paper under the porch. Time before that, into the tree. And Jonathan still didn't know how he'd managed to get it onto the chimney that one time. . .

He yawned and stretched and was just turning to go inside when he heard the sound of loud music rapidly approaching from down the street. It was coming from a pick up down the road. Several people were standing in the bed, hurling beer bottles along the sidewalk and into his neighbor's yards. One of them was hitting mailboxes with a golf club.

Disgusted, Jon tucked the newspaper under his arm. He took aim and when the truck passed by, he made a throwing motion with his free hand. For a moment, it looked as though absolutely nothing had happened, though now his palm was feeling uncomfortably warm.

The truck went on another ten feet before stopping suddenly. They all had just enough time to wonder what had happened before all four wheels simultaneously fell off. The truck fell to the road with a metallic crash. The doors fell off and the hood popped open. The engine began to smoke.

Satisfied, Jon went inside, leaving the young men sitting inside their defunct vehicle to wonder what the hell had happened.


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