We survey the city from our lofty perch until each finger freezes and each nose runneth over. A half-melted blowup doll lays deflated at his feet, the victim of an earlier test. He ignites the rocket, which tears down the wire, just missing the expensive camera, and collides with a Dumpster, spraying firelike vitriol. He then rigs a hose connected to a propane tank through the housing of an old vacuum cleaner with the bag removed. A spark plug fires it up, and propane burns in blues and yellows out the back of the vacuum, whose motor slowly and theatrically deteriorates in the fire.
Parts occasionally explode or spit themselves out.
A sturdier shop vac is the next victim, and upon ignition, the top blows off 30 feet in the air, scaring everyone to death. For take two, the shop vac stays the course, breathing flames and melting melodramatically like its cousin before it. After an hour or two, the fumes from burning plastic, dust, propane, metal, and motor parts have entered our lungs unwelcome and noticeably annihilated many of our brain cells. Dazed to an alarming degree from all the toxins, we go home and nap. Congregating at the Hob Nob Lounge, ladies of both genders mill and chatter in wedding dresses of all styles, shapes, and degrees of deterioration.