(For previous parts see here)
The last thing I remember was kick boxing the fire. When I woke up the townspeople were staring down at me in disgust, arguing over what punishment to mete out to me. When I heard (Insert Name Here) and Spot–see, I knew Spot was no good!–arguing over the logistics of keelhauling their failed Fire Chief in a landlocked city, I knew it was time to leave Anytown. I pointed and yelled, “Oh no, another fire!” They all looked away in terror, and before they turned back I was on the other side of town. Phew. That was close. Whoops. Better watch out for roaming knife salesmen while I’m fleeing from the mob just to be safe.
Eventually the noise of the angry mob grew faint and I figured I was in the clear. Thank God. I’d been running for what seemed like an hour straight through the charred remnants of Not Anytown (another name chosen via popular vote) and was completely winded. I ran past the burnt remains of the Hall of Records, what remained of the Hall of Government, and even past the soothing sounds of a wayward Hall and Oates. Finally, I arrived at Not Anytown’s edge and saw a surprisingly not incinerated house atop a hill.
I was surprised to see a house like this in the first place, but doubly surprised to see a “For Sale” sign on the front lawn. The sign was old and quite weather worn. It was covered in cobwebs and dust, its colors were faded, and you could barely make out realtor’s number except for a “666” area code. No wonder, I thought. That’s not a local call.