The bills made a crackling sound as they slapped into the mailbox. Dean gritted his teeth and wrenched the mailbox door nearly off its hinges. He grumbled as he walked inside, he grumbled as he crushed the kitchen chair with his fury-firmed buttocks, he grumbled still as he eviscerated the envelope with a fingernail.

As he (grumbling) clicked the pen and lowered it to write the first check, something caught his eye. His son, motherless—legally, anyway—was watching a movie in which a knight impaled the evil dragon and saved the day. Dean paused, then glanced back at the check. It did have some fire-breathing qualities to it. He hesitated once more, and then hacked into the tree pulp with ink and white-out.

Eastville Plumbing Co.? Vanquished!

Harriet & Stoker Law Firm? Cut down!

Daycare, with rearing talons and fire on its lips? Through the jugular!

More and more bills, until Dean was left gasping at the end. Done. No money left, but that was okay.

It was for his son, after all.