The night had been a cool and breezy sedative. Mrs Westmaas had heard strange noises at the back of her mind: loud paps, vooms, dups and fraps fraps. But she dozed on for no amount of fretting could halt the army of night-time mysteries from marching across her floor, from parachuting onto her mosquito net or ab-sailing down her walls. And she took comfort in the knowledge that by morning the noises would long be forgotten.
As the sun threw its rays through the bedroom windows, Mr Westmaas chimed: "Chop, chop Juanie, time to get up". Filled with the happiness of a new day Mr and Mrs Westmaas picked up their reluctant bodies, placed their feet upon the ground and yes, hollered. In unison.
The floor. Red. Was strewn with bodies. Dead bodies. What manner of man can sleep through Beetlemagedon? They must be becoming full blown Pomeroonians.
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