In a rare epiphany for Randall Quintal, he realized that he wasnt nearly as clever as hed thought. At the age of 25, hed always prided himself on his ability to out think the opposition; it didnt matter that he had never held a steady job, or graduated from high school. Randall had just added those to his list of why he was smarter than others.
Bomb making was dangerous. Randall had known that. He had taken all the precautions. Fan in the window. Rubber gloves. Clean work area to prevent contamination.
The Hydrogen Peroxide came from Wal-mart and cost $1.99. The Magnesium Oxide he had farmed from old double D batteries. The Sulfuric Acid he had stolen from his night school chemistry lab.
He realized now the flaw in his plan was not writing down the instructions. Instructions? What did he need those for? After all, there were only three ingredients. But perhaps if he wouldve had some guide, he wouldnt have added them out of order.
Perhaps he wouldnt have been smoking.
In the duration it took the blue fireball to burst to its limit on the second floor of his Mothers home, he realized that something had gone terribly wrong. The white siding outside his bedroom buckled like an overripe blister. Shingles cart wheeled from the roof, imbedding themselves in surrounding houses like ninja stars. Windows across the neighborhood reflected the blue explosion like flashbulbs of an old-time press camera.
Randalls innards squashed as if clamped with a fist, before the concussion smashed him backwards into the blister. His vertebrae popped loose from his spine. In one small bit of luck, his nervous system was severed from his brain, disconnecting the signals of screaming pain. His head smacked into wood and concrete, his sight vanishing as his cranium dissolved.
The fire held him, his skin melting like wax.
Then he was ripped through the buildings blister by the final shove of the fireball and he plummeted to the interlocking brick of the driveway.
At least it would take weeks to clean up this mess, he thought.
He bounced twice. And died.
CHEERY! I like it.
Was Randall also the one who dismantled the fire detector at Force? I bet he was!
You know, you really have to curb this overwhelmingly positive attitude towards life. Try to think more dark thoughts. That’s the ticket!
BTW well written. Just a few minor edits. Tried to do the red pen thing, but couldn’t figure out how. Your lucky day.