Burt looked out the window. And gasped. He hammered on the glass.
“Get the hell off the grass!” He yelled, spit spotting the pane.
“What’s going on, Burt?” She called from the kitchen.
“There’s a damn thing on the damn lawn!” He said, eyes staring daggers through the glass.
“Well, didn’t it see the sign?”
“Of course it did!” He cried, “how could it not!” He pointed at the large placard that stood purposefully at the edge of the property upon which large, stern letters declared ‘STAY OFF THE LAWN. ASSHOLE.’
“What’re going to do?” She said, poking her head through the doorway.
Burt shook his head and didn’t look at her. He was studying the interloper.
“Son of a bitch,” he said.
A chubby, pink globule about the size and shape of a couple sacks of shit sat there in the middle of his freshly mowed, perfectly green patch of suburban pride. It casually raised its globby head.
“Blurmp,” it said and a sticky wad of red slime plopped out of the hole in the middle of what may possibly be somewhat accurately described as perhaps its face and splat onto the grass with a sizzle. Where it landed smoke rose and the blades of grass blackened to ash.
“SONOFABITCH!” Burt cried.
“What happened?” She said.
“He’s killing my boys! The squishy creep is killing my baby boys!!!” He turned to face his wife, “Violet, get my gun.”
To be continued…