“You’ve blown your filthy catalpa leaves into my yard for the last time, Jackson!” screams Smythe, red-faced, and whips out an ominous black remote control. He smashes its single button with one finger.
Behind him, his brown brick split-level trembles, quakes and erupts out of the earth. Huge titanium legs turn it around as blue-hot flames jet from its windows; the front stoop unfolds into three sets of gnashing concrete teeth.
“What does your catalpa say… to Housezilla?” shouts Smythe, through the din.
Jackson’s unperturbed. He glances sideways at eight-year-old Teddy, playing in the sandbox.
And thumbs his own remote control.