He heard the tune in his sleep: "Pop Goes the Weasel" looping over loudspeakers as an ice cream truck circled the neighborhood, pied-pipering kids out of their homes, money out of their parents. Only in the dream, it wasn't children chasing the truck but actual weasels. Dev stood on his front porch, watching as the rodential flow streamed through the red dot of his laser sight, humming along as he tightened his finger around the trigger, timing his shot to the word Pop! when his eyes flew open.
- From Happy Doomsday: A Novel by David Sosnowski
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