It was a typical day in my apartment. I was sitting at my desk, formulating my next song. Although
the climax of my career had long passed, there was still hope. The new song would be entitled 'I
Love the Little Children.' No, that was a bad idea. 'Kids Get Me All Worked Up' could work,
I thought, though rejecting it seconds later. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. 'Who is
it?' I replied. 'It's us, you sick freak. We've all had it. Your time is up, now open the
door before we set your apartment on fire!' I let out a deafening screech. It was them again.
This group of misanthropes had been around since my rise to stardom. I never understood what I did
to fill them with this overwhelming antipathy of me. 'Open your door now you worthless piece of
trash!' I ran to check on my son in his crib. He was silent, as always. Although he could not
speak yet, we shared a form of telepathy. Whenever I was hungry, he was too. Whenever I needed to
use the bathroom, he did also. 'That's it, were burning the place down!' At first I assumed
they were bluffing, but I was quickly deterred when I heard the flickering of a lighter outside the
door. Panicking, I knew I had to think carefully. My son began to wail. I snatched him from his
crib and ran to the window. His life is much more valuable than my own. I bellowed out a call for
help to the people walking below. I was immediately recognized, and crowd formed below me.
Thankful I had learned sign language a few years prior to this time, I motioned for someone in the
crowd to get a landing parachute for me to throw my child into. A plump man gave me a thumbs up and
ran off with a phone in his hand. Heaving a sigh of relief, I ran back inside to get my son's
medicine for his pathological heart condition. Pouring the medicine down his throat, I ran to the
door, pleading with the mob to forgive me for whatever I had done. 'Shut it you fruit!' was the
only response I got. They had absolutely no sympathy for me. 'Why won't this wood set on
fire?' they asked rhetorically. Praying that the man had returned with the blanket, I ran to the
window again. I dangled my son over the handrail, prepared to toss him to safety. To my surprise,
there was no blanket. A look of horror spread over every individual's face in the crowd. I
pulled the child back up, beginning to explain, but I knew there was no time. I returned to scan
the perimeter of the room for any weapons I could use to fend off the mod, but found nothing.
Desperate, I screamed to the angry group outside my door. 'Just beat it. Beat it!' I heard
one of them mutter, 'Cops, run!' The sound of forty feet pounded the ground, shaking the
apartment. A warm feeling of security came over me. I grabbed my son and could do nothing but
smile at him, and he smiled back. The next day I was out shopping when dozens of reporters swarmed
me. They questioned me about the so called 'stunt' I pulled the other day where I hoisted my
son above the handrail, putting his life in danger. I began to explain, but knew it was no use
telling the truth, as it would just be stretched later. I spoke periphrastically, and they soon
dissipated. The following day I picked up my morning paper and shook my head when I read the
headline. 'Michael Jackson's Baby Dangling Stunt Shocks Onlookers.'