Juan hated everything about this house: its grandiose design, its stale air, and its numerous statues of former Prime Minister Arthur Meighen, the legacy of his adoptive father. After the statues had thoroughly creeped out his dinner guests, Juan had vowed to get rid of them.It seemed, though, that anytime he tried, something happened—sometimes to the house, sometimes to him—to draw his attention elsewhere until he lost the determination yet again. He measured the weight of the .22 as he passed it between his palms. Strangely enough, he couldn't remember when he had picked it up or to what end. This just went to show, he was convinced, why the statues had to go. But it was easier said than done.
Without looking, he raised his arm with a jolt and pointed the weapon at the large bronze statue in the corner. The bullet nicked the edge of the statue, leaving little mark as the gun was but a .22 and the statue was metal, and ricocheted back towards Juan, killing him. His brain had neither had the chance to figure out why the bullet had defied physics and ricocheted in a 180 degree turn, nor why he couldn't remember firing the gun, and he sank to the ground with a strangely confused expression on his face.
Meanwhile, in Cornwall, Topsy McFiddlesqueak, the morbidly obese Earl of Snackdom, was sitting down to a light meal of an entire potato tart, two wheels of cheese, and the better part of a sheep's hindquarters. The sheep bleated in terror. The potato tart, on the other hand, sat perfectly still, looking smugly satisfied with the situation it found itself in.