Secret Marines: The Sequel

My daddy still works for the Secret Marines

I know 'cause he still keeps six brains in maldehyde jars in our living room mantlepiece. He turns off my Michael Jackson records and plays John Philip Sousa music for them instead, which appears to agitate them. They swell up and the glass jars rattle, while fluid squirts out and drips into the fireplace, causing a chemical reaction to occur, creating cyanide gas, causing hundreds of dead bats to fall into our pleasant campfire

One bat fell on and stuck to my marshmallow roasting on a wooden ruler when I wasn't looking, and I bit into the bat's face, but it was still alive and screeched as it bit into my cheek, getting its teeth stuck in my upper gum

My daddy, still in uniform, jumped over to attempt to pry the bat loose from my face, but blood and fire and marshmallow seemed to be everywhere as The Star-Spangled Banner torturously played on

In my excruciating frenzy, I reached up, grabbing at one of the brains - who had all begun humming, steadily - and knocked over the one labeled "Ward Cleaver" into the fireplace. It fizzled and popped and grotesque green hands reached out and pulled my daddy into the fire

My face half-melted, began to engulf me, squirming, burning bad, as my daddy struggled with the brain hands. He reached for his glasses like Neville Brand in Tobe Hooper's "Eaten Alive" and managed to grab a can of Pepsi and douse the flames

The fire was dead; the brain was dead; the bat was dead; my face, although horribly disfigured, still served utilitarian purposes; and my daddy came out totally unscathed. I looked up at the remaining brains on the mantlepiece and I cried. They had all died from fright!

My daddy doesn't work for the Secret Marines anymore