Grass massacre
The mower sputtered and died. I unscrewed the gas lid and looked inside.
Empty.
I walked around the house and into the garage. On top of the toolbox were three red containers. I shook each one and took the heaviest, then went back out to the exhausted machine and gave it a drink.
When the tank was full, I screwed the lid back on, stepped back behind the handle, reached down, and pulled the cord. A cloud of black smoke billowed from the exhaust. The engine roared with the new life that only a meal and some rest can give.
I pressed the blade initiator and pieces of acorn and shreds of leaf shot out in all directions. Then I pressed the clutch and we were off to complete our conquest: beheading every living member of the grass nation.