The street of Private Drive was nearly pitch-black in the dark night, the only illumination coming from a line of widely-spaced streetlamps whose dim, flickering lights served only to heighten the surrounding darkness and provide clichéd settings for film noir detectives and blues players.
The night was silent except for the rustle of trees and the cacaphony of the blues players' harmonicas, which really wasn't much different from the day anyway. All in all, the denizens of Private Drive slept peacefully, with the exception of those who were awake or dead. Even then, they were still quiet.
Near the end of the row of small houses was the number 420 Private Drive, a home no different from the others save for one thing: a little cat sat perched on the fence, staring at the house in that weird kitty way.
It watched the front door for a good while, seemingly expecting something, before the scuff of a shoe at the end of the street caused it to jump and turn wildly.
Coming up Private Drive was a tall old man in a long robe that brushed his skinny ankles and seemed to have rubbed them raw. He had a long, pointed nose, upon which sat a pair of new-moon spectacles, which is to say no spectacles whatsoever. In one thin-fingered hand, he clutched a slender wooden wand with a star on one end. His other hand was in his pocket.
As he approached the first streetlamp, he pulled his hand from his pocket and held up a curious object.
It was small, silvery, and square, almost like a cigarette lighter, and it had a hinged lid like a cigarette lighter. It was, in fact, a cigarette lighter.
The old man flipped open the lighter's lid and ignited a small flame. It wasn't a lot of fire; just enough to light the fuse on the stick of dynamite he now held in his free hand. With a grunt of exertion, he chucked the explosive at the closest streetlight, sending a terrified blues player running.
A quiet second passed. The man wiggled his eyebrows and plugged his ears, obviously no stranger to dynamite.
A booming crescendo lit up the street for a moment as the streetlamp was completely incinerated, along with the sidewalk beneath it.
The man continued on like this, throwing explosives at every lightpost he came across and basically decimating the street beyond all hope of repair. This should've woken every resident of Private Drive, but as stated before, most of them were already awake or dead, so the explosions went unnoticed.
By the time all of the streetlights were gone, a smoky haze filled the air and numerous craters displayed where the lights had once stood. The man, satisfied, put away his lighter and continued down the road, stepping over a whimpering blues player and crushing his harmonica underfoot.
He stopped in front of 420 Private Drive, where the cat was still perched, and stopped, looking around.
The street was silent and still.
With a quick glance at the cat, the man hopped the fence and tromped across four rows of flowers, walking right next to a pathway that would have prevented him from having to do so. The cat jumped down from the fence and caught up to him, running up against his legs.
The man chuckled and picked it up, gently stroking its furry head. He noticed a bed of flowers that his trampling feet had missed and promptly threw the cat at it, properly roughing the flowers up.
The cat meowed angrily and ran off, obviously annoyed. The flowers that had been hit rustled together even though there was no wind at the moment. With a soft sigh of leaves, the flowerbed became a woman, who sat up and glowered at the man.
"There was no need for THAT!" she snapped, her emerald-green dress changing from plant to fabric.
"Ah, McHooligan," said the man brightly, "I thought it was you." He waved away a little bit of explosion dust that floated around them.
McHooligan shook her head sternly. "I'm sure you did," she said. "Took extra care to trample me, too."
"All in the name of fun, Minnie," said the man, glancing at the stars. "We need some joy tonight of all nights."
McHooligan gasped. "So the rumors are true, then?"
The man's smile dimmed. "Not. . . all of them, I would say," he said.
"But the ones about the Plumber family?" asked McHooligan tentatively, her voice catching. "John and Lassie and. . . their baby son?"
"Hairy," corrected the man. "And yes, it's true, John and Lassie are dead."
McHooligan sniffed, although it was obvious that she had already suspected the truth. "Oh, Alfred!" she cried suddenly, "what are we going to do?"
Alfred put a consoling hand on her shoulder. "It's alright, Minnie, I've already stolen their corpses. The Dark Lard's followers won't be able to get at them."
McHooligan nodded silently, though she didn't seem much cheered up by the words. "And. . . what about Hairy, their son?" she managed.
Alfred smiled. "The rumors are also true there," he told McHooligan. "Hairy Plumber has survived a direct attack by Vatofmelt himself, and the Dark Lard seems to have vanished since."
"H-how?" gasped McHooligan. "Nobody has ever faced his wrath and lived to tell the tale!"
"Well, now someone has," said Alfred. "It was bound to happen sometime." He looked up at the sky again. "In fact, Hairy's on his way right now. I sent Haggard to pick him up."
As if summoned by those words, a gigantic man plummeted from the sky, screaming, "HAGGARD SMASH!" and destroyed what was left of the street upon landing. He slowly picked himself up, groaning, and lumbered over.
"There he is!" said Alfred cheerily.
"I have what ye asked fer, Professor Dumplingstore," said Haggard, holding up a small bundle of rags.
"Is that the baby?" asked McHooligan, looking worried.
"Yes, Professor," said Haggard. He shook the rags to unfurl them and a baby fell out, smacking wetly into the dirt.
"Great job, Haggard," said Professor Dumplingstore, clapping the giant warmly on the back. They walked up to the front door of 420 Private Drive together.
"This the place, Professor?" asked Haggard, eyeing the old-fashioned door.
"It is indeed," said Dumplingstore.
"May I ask what you two are doing?" asked McHooligan, who was still standing in the garden next to the baby, which was crying loudly.
"You may," affirmed Dumplingstore. He watched the front door with patience.
"What are you two doing?" McHooligan asked.
"Trying to figure out how to get this baby through the door," said Dumplingstore. "This family is his only living relatives. We must leave Hairy with them."
"Oh," said McHooligan, and she, too, joined them. A few minutes passed.
"Fit him through the keyhole?" suggested Haggard tentatively. Dumplingstore's face lit up.
"An excellent idea!" he said, going and grabbing the baby by its ankles. He walked up to the door and pressed the baby against the knob. After a few seconds, his face fell. "No," he said, 'I forgot they don't make keyholes double-sided anymore. We'd only succeed in getting him into the doorknob."
"The mail slot!" said McHooligan in a burst of brilliance.
"Oh, wonderful!" said Dumplingstore, moving to the mail slot and squeezing the baby into it.
"Don't you think that could hurt his skull?" added McHooligan as an afterthought.
"Nonsense," said Dumplingstore, pushing the child further into the mail slot. "Babies are incredibly malleable."
With a pop, the young Hairy slid through the mail slot and out of sight. There was a thud on the other side of the door and then silence.
It was deathly quiet. The three adults stood clustered at the door, listening for signs of life.
"Do ye. . ." began Haggard, faltering. "Do ye think we mighta killed him?"
Suddenly, they all heard the baby start crying from the other side of the door. Dumplingstore smiled. "Our work here is done," he said, turning away to re-trample the flowers. The other two followed him as he hopped the fence and strode down the ruined street, kicking a large chunk of asphalt.
Young Hairy lay wailing on the doormat, waving his little fists and screaming injustices at the world. On his forehead was a large circular burn that looked as though it would probably stay for the rest of his life.
In a few hours, the mother in 420 Private Drive, whose name was Perfumia Worseley, would find young Hairy Plumber lying in her entry hall, squeezed into an oblong shape from his trip through the mail slot. She would scream and drop her breakfast, which, of course, would land on Hairy and add insult to injury.
But for now, the street was quiet again.