Mar 062012

Peter’s parents were going into the city that afternoon, so they had dropped him off at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.  As soon as he got there, Grandma took him into the living room to read a story.

“You can come closer,” she said as she began.  “I’m not going to bite.

Grandma was always saying things like that.  She was a funny grandma, and usually Peter liked her.  But today he was feeling shy.

“Grandpa told me the same thing,” said Peter, holding out his arm.  Grandma bent down to get a closer look.

What she saw made her barf, basically.  It looked like Peter’s arm had been shoved through a meat grinder.

“What’s going on, gang?” came Grandpa’s voice from the kitchen.

“I hope you’re ready for dinner,” he said, suddenly popping his head in.  One look at Grandma’s face told him something was wrong, and so did the sound of Peter’s girlish shrieks.  Before anyone could do anything, Grandpa made a break for it and crashed out of the nearest window.


Later, when the police came, Peter showed them where Grandpa’s secret room was: it was beneath the floor of the garage.  The chief got onto the ladder that led down, but only after some of the lower-ranking policemen made sure there were no booby traps on it that might blow him up.

When he got to the bottom, the chief looked around and let out a low whistle: he had never seen so many biting-related things before.  In one corner was a display case full of metal teeth, the kind you put over your regular ones so you can bite harder.  In another, there was a bookshelf stacked with hundreds of books like “Where You Should Bite When You’re Biting a Child” and “I Bit a Million Kids: The Autobiography of Chuck Koestler.”  To top it all off, the walls were covered in paintings, paintings of men biting children.  Some of them looked as if they had been painted a long time ago.

After making his notes, the chief went back to the car where they were keeping Grandpa.  They had caught him by a stream.

“You’re a real sicko, gramps,” the chief said, whacking Grandpa with his stun baton a little.

“Oh yeah, he’s a real sicko all right,” Officer Jenkins agreed.  “We’ll be putting that sicko away for a long time, eh, Chief?”

“Oh, sure, sure,” said the chief, turning away.  Officer Jenkins bothered him.  Why did he always have to talk so much, the chief wondered.  The chief knew the other officers also agreed about Grandpa  but they were more quiet about it.  They weren’t always talking everyone’s ear off.

“Have fun in jail, sicko,” said Officer Jenkins.

That’s when the chief really lost it.

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