"The congregation will not be amused......" the feeble, old, gray-haired grandmother of six muttered under her breath. Observing the odd consistency of what was oozing from one of the charred, decapitated torsos, the only thing she could liken it to was black oatmeal. "I wonder what black oatmeal tastes like," she wondered, digging into her pocket and pulling out her trusty zippo. Looking down with an expression of deep concern, she realized she was in danger of running late for the get-together at church. Bingo payouts were double that night; a rare opportunity not to be squandered. With little time to spare and amidst the constant screams and pleadings of the few left alive, Gertrude re-lit the pilot light on her flamethrower and took aim. - Excerpt, The Living Memoirs of Grampy Bobby.