After returning to his condo and spending some quality time with his bong, Klay had written down a list of things he would need to do to transform the lump of weapons-grade plutonium in his possession into a powerful explosive device capable of blowing up Stephen Curry’s house and allowing Klay to sneak into the wreckage to retake the three-point shooting amulet:
-Acquire detonation device
-Develop an external casing (taco shells?)
-Wake and bake
Re-reading the list through bloodshot eyes, Klay decided that this was an actionable series of steps. Each one was concrete and easy to assess for completeness. There was no reason why he couldn’t complete them all that very day and plant the improvised nuclear warhead in or near Stephen’s house that very night.
Setting up the detonator would be simple. He knew from watching a lot of crime drama TV shows that cell phones were often used for the task. As it so happened, he had his old flip phone in his drawer of random electronics; he quickly found it and, after a short search for a suitable container, put the phone in a greasy Dunkin Donuts box. He briefly wondered if it would be necessary to somehow attach wires to the phone, then decided that it would work the way it was.
Next to the phone, he put the chunk of plutonium. When he called the phone, the ringing would cause the plutonium to ignite and explode. Since it was plutonium, the explosion would certainly destroy Stephen’s entire house, and if Stephen didn’t die from the blast itself, he would contract severe radiation sickness; the rapid and grotesque mutations of his cells would kill him within minutes. Then Klay wouldn’t even have to share the amulet. It couldn’t go wrong.
To make sure the phone stayed next to the plutonium during transport and deployment of the warhead, Klay filled the donut box with crispy taco shells. This would have the added benefit of creating deadly, yet paradoxically tasty, taco shell shrapnel during detonation.
Standing back to admire his work, Klay nodded once in satisfaction, then grabbed his bong and took another long pull. The three-point shooting amulet would soon be his, and he would regain his rightful place as best player on the Warriors.
Klay quietly placed the donut-box-turned-nuclear-warhead in the bushes next to Stephen’s house. En route to the location, he had developed a severe case of the munchies, and had eaten one of the taco shells in the box, but he was confident that this compromise did not alter the success chances of the plan. The bomb would still retain the full power of its plutonium core even if it was missing a taco shell.
Now Klay walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell. This part was not strictly necessary, but Klay wanted to engage in a little bit of mean-spirited gloating before he became sole possessor of the three-point amulet. While he waited, he got the number of his old cell phone dialed into his newer smartphone.
The front door opened. “Hey Klay, what’s up?” asked a tired-looking Stephen Curry.
“Oh nothing, just gonna blow up your house with a nuclear weapon and steal that amulet that you think I don’t know about but I actually do know about.”
Stephen rolled his eyes. “Klay, you’re stoned right now. Come back when you’re ready to make sense.”
“I’m making perfect sense! I’ve got the detonation code right here!” Klay bellowed before pressing the “call” button dramatically. “And with your demise, I will write the next chapter of Warriors basketball! Alone! By myself! Because you’ll be dead! BOOM!” Upon hearing the phone in the donut box ring for the first time, indicating that the plutonium bomb was seconds away from detonating, Klay turned and ran away from the house, laughing like a maniac. He dove behind some hedges across the street, covering his head with his hands, waiting for the explosion.
A minute later, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see Stephen standing above him, holding the donut box with a look of confusion on his face.
“What are you doing!?” Klay yelled, scrambling backwards. “Get that thing away from me! It’ll go off any second!”
“I don’t know where you got all that plutonium, but I took it into my house in case you decided to try to smoke it in your bong or something.” Stephen threw the box on the ground where Klay lay, dumbfounded. “Here, you can have your taco shells back. Oh, yeah, and I think I’ll keep the amulet.”
Klay opened the box and began to sadly munch on a taco shell. “Can’t you just give it to me? The amulet?” he pleaded. “Please?”
“Nope,” Stephen replied. “Especially not after you tried to take my life with this laughably pathetic attempt at a homemade bomb.”
“I just wanted to be the star of the team,” Klay wailed, but he got no response; Stephen was already walking back to his house.
For how long Klay lay there, mourning the failure of his plan, he did not know. All he knew was that he had never wanted a hit on his bong more badly than he did right then.