Once upon a time, there were two popsicles that shared a side, and they were sick of each other. They had a shared history, they spent all their time together and they finished each other’s sentences. But sometimes, they just wanted their own, independent lives.
The popsicles lived in the freezer of a family that consisted in part of a little girl and a little boy, who did not get along, either. The children weren’t twins, but they still felt that they shared too much of what they would have preferred to have separately. Most of their conversations were more like fights than anything else.
“Get out of my face, monkey-butt!” the little boy would say, and the little girl would say, “One day, I will kill you dead.”
But every so often, the two of them had a moment of togetherness.
One day, these children were fighting in the kitchen over who had put whose fingers in whose lasagna first, and the two popsicles were fighting in the freezer over whether Luke or Owen Wilson was the superior actor.
“Kids,” said the children’s father, finally. “If you stop fighting right now, you can be done with dinner and each have a popsicle.”
This made the kids happy, and their father went over to the freezer and took out the popsicles and ripped off their paper cover.
“Aaaaaaah,” screamed the popsicles, clinging to each other in terror.
“Yaaaaay!” screamed the kids, hopping up and down in excitement.
The popsicles were assaulted with a rush of new sensations. They felt as if they were burning in a fire and everything was bright and bare. They barely had time to register all of this before they were ripped apart, their entire sides severed and sloughing away, sheered down the middle, jaggedly, with no anesthesia, no forewarning, no mercy.
The popsicles screamed and wept and reached for each other, apologizing for all the hurtful words and lost moments, and trying to comfort each other as best they could in their agony, fear, and increasing mutilation. Soon, their heads were gone, and then their torsos. Meanwhile, the children ran into the living room to watch a movie about talking cars, momentarily united by the simple joy of murder.