The tall bookcase wavered from the push it had received. The topmost books plopped gracefully to the floor, and then the whole thing fell forwards with a crash. Right across the bed.
"Oh, no." Jack groaned.
As if in agreement, the bed suddenly broke.
"It was the giant killer octopus!" Freddy gasped. "And it didn't have any sugar!"
From downstairs we heard the front door open. "Kids? Anybody home?"
It never fails. Things can go well for two solid hours, and the one minute when everything falls apart is the same minute that Mom and Dad walk through the door.
"I have some terrible news." Dad said when we followed him into the living room.
"What's that, Dad?" I asked.
He turned to the wall, his hands behind his back.
"Terrible news," he repeated gravely. He turned around, his head down, his eyes serious.
"The fifty-ton, mile-long, giant killer octopus was run over by an aircraft carrier today." he said.
Jack and I looked at each other uneasily.
"It was?" Jack asked.
"Oh, my, hadn't you heard? Yes, it was. Killed instantly. But scientists say it never felt a thing, so you can rest easy about that. It has now been stuffed and put on display at the Smithsonian Institution."
Jack and I looked at each other again.
"Do you know what this means?" Dad asked.
"What?"
"The reign of the giant killer octopus is now ended. It is no more, kaput, finished. And do you know what else that means?"
"What?" we asked.
"If I hear one more story about the fifty-ton, mile-long, giant killer octopus, two of my children will be shoveling the snow off Lake Michigan and all its beaches. Do I make myself clear?"