George Wilson woke up, his joints aching as they often did these days. He turned his head to see if Martha were still there. Nothing but an indentation in the sheets greeted him. "She must be making breakfast," he thought to himself.
He stood stiffly, pressing against his back with his palms, hoping the stretching would lessen his lower back pain. A few pops and snaps from his spine were his reward for this effort and, feeling slightly better, he walked slowly into the adjacent bathroom.
George gave a firm yank to the pullchain on the light fixture, throwing the room in a harsh, incandescent glare. He looked himself in the mirror, examining his wrinkles, the bags under his eyes, the slight double-chin that old age and poor diet had conferred to him, his slightly-drooping mustache, his receding hairline, all features he had grown quite used to in the last several years. "George, my boy, you're definitely not what you used to be," he said to his reflection, as he often did, before readying his morning shower.
As he stood in front of the mirror now to shave the stubble from his cheeks and chin, dripping wet and with a towel around his paunchy midsection, he could hear Martha calling to him. "George! Breakfast is ready!"
"Almost ready, dear!" As he finished removing the last of the stubble, he frowned. He had a sneaking suspicion that today was going to be an even worse day than usual, and he already knew exactly how it would be; the Mitchell kid.
That damned kid. Starting a few years ago, when the child became old enough to go out on his own around the neighborhood, he had been a perpetual thorn in George's side, always causing mischief. Thanks to the Mitchell brat, he had already needed to replant some of Martha's flowers, fix a broken window, repaint part of the fence, and mend a vase. And the kid's summer break had only started a week ago!
These thoughts still clouding his mind, he got dressed and sat down at the kitchen table, where Martha had made a simple breakfast of eggs, toast, and marmalade. "G'morning dear," George said dourly.
"My! Don't you look grumpy this morning! Thinking about the Mitchell boy again, are we?"
"Martha, the kid is a menace! The little hellraiser's already pushing me to the limit."
"Oh come on, George, he's just a boy. He doesn't mean any harm, you know that."
"Why can't we just move away? I'd like to spend my retirement in peace."
"And you spend it perfectly peaceably. So what if Dennis bothers you every now and then? He's still a good boy, and his parents are both wonderful people. You're just being an old grump."
George chose not to respond, instead sullenly looking at the morning paper. Martha was lonely, he knew that. They had never had children themselves, despite how hard they had both tried, and that had hurt her very deeply. But that boy! That damnable boy! He knew he couldn't convince her of what he knew deep down about Dennis.
"Well, Martha," he said, standing up, "I'm going to repair a hole in the fence. Just try to keep that Mitchell brat out of my hair!"
"OK dear, just tell me if you need anything."
Once outside, George set to work gathering his tools and lumber. He wasn't sure how the hole got in the back of the fence, but the scorch marks around its edges made him suspect foul play from a certain tousle-haired blond kid that lived next door. What was funny to George was that he hadn't actually heard any explosion, but he was certain it had happened regardless. "Damn brat," he muttered to himself as he measured out the amount of wood he required, "why don't those Mitchells knock some sense into him, that's what I want to know."
After an hour of hard work, George decided to take a break. He thought it peculiar that Dennis hadn't stopped by to bother him yet. He still couldn't shake the feeling that today was going to be a particularly bad day, so the boy's absence weighed on him. "God knows what he's doing, and I'm not sure I want to know" he said to himself as he got himself some lemonade from the fridge. Martha was darning some socks while listening to the radio, so he decided to let her be. If Dennis had been around she would've already been baking him a batch of cookies or who-knows-what.
Making his way back outside, he finished mending the fence, much earlier than he had anticipated. George stood, scratching his head. Where was Dennis? With a shrug, he walked toward the shed to get his lawn mower. If Dennis wasn't bothering him right now, he might as well get additional yardwork finished.
He had just started mowing around the back when Martha called him in for lunch, which consisted of sandwiches and iced tea. As they ate, George was still troubled. "Martha, have you seen that Mitchell kid around yet?"
"Dennis? No, haven't heard anything. I'm sure that's made you happy, of course."
"What? Oh yes, yes, got a lot of work done."
"That's wonderful, dear! Maybe we'll be able to go out tonight. You always say you're a bit too busy, and it would be wonderful."
George smiled. It had been a long time, she was right. "I'll definitely think about it, dear. I'll just finish up mowing the lawn and then, well, we'll see."
As he mounted the riding mower, George felt, for the first time in quite a while, cheerful. Maybe today wasn't going to be so bad after all. But then his heart sank. Dennis had to be arriving eventually, and when he did, that was almost certain to put a wrench in things. His formerly dour mood restored, he mowed the rest of his lawn quickly, keeping a close eye out for any blond-haired brats that might be making their way onto his property.
The lawn mowing complete, George stepped inside and quickly looked around. Still no sign of the Mitchell kid. "If Dennis isn't showing up today," thought George, "I guess there might not be any harm in finishing up a little project of mine."
George walked into his study and produced a bottle with a partially-completed wooden ship in it. Ever since he had served in the Navy in Korea, he had an affection for ships and ship-building. He had tried building model ships before but he either lost interest, botched them, or, in a particularly memorable instance, Dennis had accidentally broken them. This particular ship was the latest in a long line of them, and he hoped that he would be able to finish it today without interference.
Just then, he heard the door being opened, and he could hear Martha speak to whomever was there. "Why hello, Dennis, ho- EEEEK, WHAT'S THAT YOU'RE HOLDING?"
"Oh, just somethin' I want to show to Mr. Wilson!"
"Dennis, where did you get that? Put it away!"
George bolted upright. Dennis! He knew that damned kid was bound to show up. Well, he wasn't going to deal with this any longer. He was going to march toward that door and tell the kid to get out.
A sudden trampling of feet down the hallway rendered this effort useless, however. As Dennis rounded the corner, in full run, he could see in Dennis's arms... oh no.
"HEY MR. WILSON, LOOK AT WHAT I'VE GOT!"
While in the Navy, George had served on a few nuclear submarines. On one particularly memorable mission, he recalled that, should any extenuating circumstances arise, they would be stocking the submarine with nuclear warheads. Though George had been out of military service for a long time, he could still recognize just what it was Dennis was holding in his hands right now. "Dennis! Dennis for the love of god, don't run around with that thing!"
But it was too late. Dennis ended up getting one of his feet snagged in the rug and came crashing down, the warhead flying into the wall. Just as the warhead detonated, bathing George in its cataclysmic glow, he knew then that it was indeed a really bad day.