Mr. Ricky Fitz Sr. (aka Richard Fitzpatrick Senior), had woken up one milky morning with an awkwardly placed lump at the base of his chest . At first upon inspection, the tumor had been about the size of his perfectly adequate fist, pulsating, almost in competition with his heart.

“My bloody fist,” Fitz had shouted, “locked within the confines of my already cramped-up chest!” He felt around the edges of his newly discovered friend, “It’s either that, or a perfectly plump, Golden Delicious Apple…” He’d trailed off, lost in his fancy —

“Mmmm–a delicious apple–
delicious apple–
delicious apple…”

He’d mouthed passionately, just under his breath. Then with a new-found sense of purpose, the man called Fitz stomped off to the kitchen, a mere room and a half away, where he made burnt toast, with crushed almond butter, apple slices, and granulated sugar. Fitz sat up at his counter, and he ate, trying to ignore the continuously growing lump as it THUMP-THUMP-THUMPED, rattling the bones that lined his chest.

Fitz pounded back. He was still able to make a fist of his own, after all, which now began to seem oddly inferior to his dismay, when all at once, and like a knot to his neck, he began to choke.

There was a gurgle, and then a gasp, when, beyond all belief and understanding of any sort, came two tiny hands, reaching up from the lump in his chest, to the bit that had been lodged in his wind-pipe. It yanked and it pulled, removed the obstruction, ate the mush itself, then settled back down where it had continued to pulsate and grow.

Fitz in the meantime had collapsed to the earth’s core, a trembling mass of ill-exposed nerve, then fought all urge to vomit. It had taken about an hour, but once he had regained his composure, had thanked the lump in his chest, then sat back down to finish his breakfast.