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which she did oh so very quietly. My father was still sleeping, and I grew suspicious. I was only seven, but even I knew that a stay-at-home mom doesn't normally sneak out of the house in her finest dressings, perfumed up like a cheap Singapore whore, walking only in her nylons. She put her shoes on once she was outside, and then she walked down the sidewalk. I slipped on my ninja outfit and followed her out, crawling out the secret door I installed two years ago from my closet that goes through my personal office and laboratory. She must have snuck out earlier, because her car was three blocks down and one street over. The neighbors wouldn't recognize her or the car. "Brilliant, mommy", I thought. "You could make a good adversary, except that you are still just a stupid woman attempting to cuckold my father, and I cannot let that stand."
I had created last winter, on a long, very boring snow day snuck at home, a photonic wrapping device that, when turned on, makes me invisible to those who can see only in the normal human range of vision. 'My inferiors', I like to think of them. I turned it on, and ran behind mommy as she drove off. She headed downtown, which was also unusual. There is nothing downtown that would interest someone of such base interests as the idiot who buys my pajamas and cooks my breakfast. A breakfast which, I suddenly realized, the stupid shrew hadn't bothered to serve me this morning. One more strike against you, mother. You shall suffer further indignities for that.
I jumped, tired of the running, and silently landed on the roof of her car. Peering through the windshield, I could see that she didn't even notice. Her empty face, devoid of intellect, her eyes dull and silent of thought, told me all I needed to know. "This is your last day on earth. I'm glad you won't be enjoying it", I thought to myself. Then a brilliance came to my magnificent brain! I grabbed an ice pick, and slowly carved that thought into the windshield. I watched her face change in a legato ballet from vapidity to sheer horror as the reality of the words struck her, and the nightmare of them appearing with no visible source! As I finished the final word, her horror, her despair, her inability to find any hope in the situation made her lose her control of the car. As she careened toward the median and the concrete barriers that would ensure her death, I took matters into my own hands. I punched the ice pick through the windshield, shattering it, slicing her face with glass and the onrush of cold, bitter air. I turned off my cloaking device, waited until I saw her look of terror-filled recognition when she saw my face and knew the source of her doom, and plunged the icepick through her temple.
I jumped from the car just before it slammed into the barriers, turned the cloak back on, and watched in a gleeful sense of holy glorification as the fire consumed car and mommy both.
I waited for the paramedics and firetrucks to arrive, and while they surrounded the area and plied their useless trades, I brazenly used my pick to carve into the firetruck windshield, "One less woman for Tiger Woods."
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