RUBE GOLDBERG'S REVENGE

There in the center of the baseball diamond was the most complicated, convoluted, and plain ridiculous device ever assembled in a single night.  The metal beast was dressed in the skin of a hundred rolls of duct tape, thousands and thousands of wraps handing loosely from the cannibalized monkey bars and bicycles that served as bones.  The inside was a madhouse of gears and cogs and toys and metal, the stink of the solder barely pushing back the acrid scent of the still gummy tape.  The twelve kids (seven boys, five girls) manned their stations, dirty hands and feet at their pedals and ready to propel the gigantic beast out and into its path of destruction.  Their leader lit the candle before him and waited for the flame to burn through the string.  Once the string broke, some lead weights would fall, the balls would roll, a water bottle would be squashed and schoolbooks would soak and tear and then the glasses would break and then the engines would light and then the beast would roar.  Their leader pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and took an excited hit from his inhaler.  His delighted eyes locked onto the flickering flame and he grinned, whispering to himself "School's out, you sons of bitches."