Woke up today to the sound of what I thought was a distant jazz funeral, but it turned out to be a toddler slapping a kazoo with organized malice.
Let me back up.
I was trudging down a broken dirt road that smelled like expired mustard and old dreams when I saw it—an open hatch in the ground, ringed by rust and mystery. A decommissioned military bunker, abandoned since the Cold War and now home to graffiti, whispers, and something that hissed at me from a ventilation shaft.
Naturally, I went in.
Inside the Bunker
There were leftover rations, an old pin-up calendar from 1974, and what I can only describe as a raccoon wearing a night vision monocle. His name was Larry. We exchanged nods, as is custom.
That’s when I heard the tricycle squeaks.
Out from the shadows came The Button Boys—a ruthless gang of toddlers in pinstripe onesies, each armed with pacifiers sharpened into shivs and the cold eyes of nap-deprived warlords.
The leader, a three-year-old named Frankie “Goldfish” Maloné, approached me with swagger and applesauce stains.
“You got any Cheerios, old man?”
“Only expired beans and a harmonica.”
“Then you best play something sweet… or we take your shoes and make ’em soup.”
I played. Oh, I played like my shoes were made of gold and secrets. They let me live, even handed me a half-eaten pudding cup and a warning:
“Next time, bring juice. Or else.”
Postscript from the Bunker:
I found a switch in the wall labeled “Launch Humanity 2.0.” I flipped it. Nothing happened. But the raccoon saluted, and a vending machine lit up briefly before dying again. Something’s stirring beneath the crust of America, and it wears diapers and demands tribute.
Hobo Harry’s Thought of the Day:
If you ever find yourself surrounded by toddlers with criminal intent, just remember: music soothes the feral. And don’t ever underestimate the power of a well-timed kazoo solo.
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