On the day the sun cracked down the middle, every giant knew at once that the Falducci twins were guilty. They’d been trouble since their birth, infamous for dropping comets in the Gobi (“at least it wasn’t Paris,” their mother always said) and for lightning wars across Alaska (“it could have been Detroit.”) Still, no one thought they’d go so far.
Now, the sun sat up on giant welding blocks, shrouded by a concrete curtain. Steam rose all around it. A black wedge of darkness split the middle. “Looks bad,” the foreman muttered to his crew. “Repairs’ll take at least a week. Cancel all your evenin’ plans.”
Despite the fairytales and vicious rumors, giants are a peaceful lot, content to walk a steady path, well used to hard and thankless work. They pay their taxes, keep the sun on course, mow their lawns and trim their hedges, raking up the clippings. They prefer a conservative cut in clothes and muted colors — no florescent orange or lemon green. They don’t wear pants with “Juicy” stitched across the buttocks.
Giants mind their business and their manners. Except for those Falducci twins. “That’ll teach Matilda to eat watermelon while she’s carrying,” cackled the ladies of the garden club. Of course, their mother made excuses. She paid for broken windows, squashed petunias, and the occasional shaved dog.
Their own father was a Tosser, famous for his arcing curves, his Fibonacci spirals. They filched the key from him, one Thursday midnight, in a fit of boredom. The guard dogs weren’t a problem, two-headed brutes with a secret weakness for Cheetos rolled in bacon. Once outside, the spilled light was like a deluge.
Down on earth, humanity prepared for the Apocalypse. What else could make the sun rise over Brooklyn at one-thirty in the morning? Worse yet, it set near Rio fifteen minutes later, then popped up over Bangkok before diving down toward Melbourne. The twins had atrocious aim, and the sun was heavier than their father made it look. By the time they dropped the thing, their arms were leaden, spent.
Fished out of an asteroid belt, the broken sun was hauled in haste to Big Al’s Welding. The twins’ mother, finally tapped of patience, bellowed thunderstorms for hours. Down on earth, they thought she was the voice of doom.
But giants are a stoic lot, and Mathilde was no exception. Once the twins were sent to bed, she sat down with a glass of wine, sighed and shook her head. “This,” she said, across the rim, “is exactly why we can’t have nice things.” Mervin nodded, already half asleep. He never would admit it, but he was grateful for the short vacation, a few days to rest his arms. There’d be panic down on earth, but what could you expect from creatures who wore “Juicy” stitched across their bums? Mervin snored. Mathilde knitted. And the twins began to plot.
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