Fireballs in the sky

My stomach was bloated with chili dip and discount beer and I was feeling low on account of the Chiefs' loss. I'd just finished seeding my lawn with fast-growing Fijian ultra grass. It was a sunny Sunday evening and I was attaching the green garden hose to the outdoor spigot, after 6 pm and at approximately 8 mph in accordance with county regulations. My dipweed neighbor across the street Al was out on his lawn too, of course, and I knew why. I'd been careful to hold the bags of seed against my chest to keep the brand name hidden, and I took the empty bags into the garage instead of tossing them in the cans on the curb. Al stood at the edge of the sidewalk with a cigarette in his mouth, pretending to fumble for matches.

Suddenly, a hogwild cracklin' in the sky! I threw my head back, shading my eyes with my forearm. Three fireballs came screaming toward the Earth, tingeing the homes on the block in reds, yellows, and oranges. The first smashed into Al's pride and joy, a purple '74 Buick and real eyesore whose tailfins invariably blocked the fire hydrant. The second went over the hill where the Parker fishing hole was. A moment later a slobbering steam cloud went up with the hiss of a thousand rattlers. The last fireball was breaking up on the way down. It exploded like birdshot over Al's head holding him transfixed, mouth agape, the cigarette jutting out stuck to his lip. In a blink a glowing chunk of coal sizzled past only inches from his face, lighting the cigarette. Al gasped in horror. Unprepared for the hot tobacco smoke he inhaled, he fell on his back and thrashed around thinking he was struck, on fire, but in fact all of the pieces missed him. His lawn was another story. Patches of it had been scalded to the dirty roots, and it looked like tufts of wildgrass on an arid tundra.

I heard sirens on their way. I went into the garage and carried the empty seed bags to the curb, slow and easy, holding them out, facing my neighbor.