Lawnmower man, who are you?
Rough and tumbled on June 21, 2026.
I slithered blithely along my belly around my house’s curtilage. The 47 stab wounds that briar bush had administered to my sack-like corpse would have to wait: I was on a mission to find out what was amiss less than a yard from my front door. What was rumbling? What was tumbling? I would find out—or bleed to death trying.
I bled to death.
Well, not to death. But close! Someone found me leaking from 47 stab wounds in my side yard. I never made it to the front yard. I made it out of the back yard. But to the front yard. Then my town’s crack team of gnomish EMTs picked me up, sewed me back together, and infused my corpse with life-sustaining cranberry juice until I grew enough new blood cells to wake up and walk around again.
Becasue was mad at me. She scolded me in the hospital for being a big doofus and nearly getting myself killed by a briar bush. “It was only a lawnmower, you big doofus,” were her exact words. But why was a lawnmower mowing about my front yard, I asked. I hadn’t hired a lawnmower man in years—at least not since that silly movie came out back in 1992. But no one answered my question—probably because I omitted the question mark, I surmised.
Anyroad, the mystery was solved. Someone had been banging a lawnmower up against my front door—quite vigorously. Only one question remained: Why? And who?