That Little Devil
The shower of dirt clods hit the ground like tiny meteors. Rogelio reloaded his little hand with more clumps of dirt, dropping a few extra in his shirt pocket, and climbed up the side of the ditch to a superior vantage point. When he reached the top, he surveyed the makeshift battlefield that lay in front of him across the rocky bed of the ditch. An armada of plastic soldiers, miniature tanks, and grounded airplanes were poised for battle, waiting for Rogelio's inevitable onslaught, stranded in strategically frozen positions in the loose dirt.
Rogelio raised his clinched fist over his head. And in a matter of seconds, he managed to demolish every miniature representation of war with a few quick flicks of his wrist, and a war cry for added effect. Examining the damage from his dirt bombs, the thought of reconstructing what he had just destroyed for the third time made him uneasy. But he descended the ditch wall anyway, grabbed his empty bucket, and began filling it with the defeated soldiers and their artillery.
"I defeated the Arabs again," he boasted. "They are no match for me and my nuclear bombs, even with Nazis on their side!"
