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Every time a Baptist pastor attacks me on Twitter my fertile gang of Catholic followers has one extra baby. Our ranks grow stronger every day. Yuck it up now, but you will never be safe. The pupils must avenge the master.
Maybe it'll happen today. Maybe years from now. He'll be at home, relaxing in his bed from another night of successful trolling and hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet from the patio. Only he doesn't have children.
He reaches for the remote and turns on the CCTV. It’s a live feed from the rooftop cameras. Juice boxes litter the yard. A door slams downstairs. They're inside.
The power goes out. Lightning illuminates the room. It's empty. Lightning again. 13 toddlers trained in the dark arts of Roman kung-fu surround the bed.
The coroner rules it a freak accident. "No murder could have been that adorable" he says. But we know better. We few, we proud, we papists.
