Lucky twisted the last wire into place and sighed with satisfaction. After fifty years, Billy McCarty and his idiot sister Becky were going to get what they deserved. The little bastards had been hounding Lucky for the last half-century, relentless in their efforts to rob him, their punishingly stupid schemes failing time after time, and Lucky had finally had enough.
This time the little shitheads were going to get exactly what they wanted.
Lucky hollowed out a cavity in the sugared oats and marshmallows filling his cast iron pot and crammed the homemade explosive inside. He filled the empty space around the bomb with hearts, stars, horseshoes, clovers, blue moons, rainbows, balloons, and hourglasses, whispering a tiny prayer as he put each one into place. “Strike true, my fluffy little friend. Become a tiny, sweetened instrument of righteousness! Sunder the flesh of my tormenters and end this hellish charade!”
When the last treat had been carefully tucked into place, Lucky tenderly picked up the pot and opened the door to his home. With the briefest touch of magic, he teleported to the McCarty’s front porch and placed the deadly vessel on the step.
“Time for your final balanced breakfast, fuckers.”