Every man has his pyromania experiences – triumphant or fruitless. This day marked the end of my pyromaniac stage:

Tonight was the opening night of Spiderman, a greatly anticipated film at the time. With a couple hours to kill before the movie began, some friends and I planned to meet at a buddy’s place – we’ll call him “Moe”. The day had begun just like any other normal, cloudless summer day. The fellas rendezvoused at Moe’s house to launch the beginning of the summer.

Note that by this time Moe held a respectable pyro history, following in the great footsteps of his older brother “Myke”, an apathetic, puerile teenager whose ‘pyroness’ has yet to be rivaled.

Moe’s dad was in Houston for the weekend so we took full advantage of the unguarded house (his parents are divorced). With six immature teenagers headed by a frivolous “adult”, Myke, we are guaranteed to have an interesting time.

[Read: Moe’s house is a fairly small house built of light blue siding. His backyard is simple: grass for about 25 feet back with a couple trees until you reach a steep rocky hill.]

As I let myself in, the guys decide that they’re hungry and want something to eat. Since the house was unprotected by any responsible adult, we could help ourselves to any food of our desires. I join the pack of hyenas into the kitchen.

After bombarding the kitchen and consuming all the edible food (that didn’t need cooking), we began to prey on Moe’s dad’s jaded collection of porn to satisfy our need for amusement, but since we had watched his collection numerous times and could effortlessly re-enact the flicks, we quickly became uninterested in the films and sought another means of entertainment. Moe, at the peak of his pyro stage, trudged to the backyard where he put together some dried leaves and grass accompanied with broken sticks to light a fire. Everyone flooded into the backyard.

We embarked on aiding Moe in his creation. We surrounded the diminutive fire with rocks to control it. Afterwards, we gathered more dried leaves and sticks to nurture the fire while Myke poked at it with a stick to help it gain momentum. This cycle continued for about fifteen minutes until the fire grew to a respectable size. We watched the fire, proud to see our hard work pay off; however, as young juveniles, this was not enough. We wanted bigger and better. That’s when the WD-40 and paint cans come in.

Moe, excited that his creation has all the attention, decides to take it to the next level. By this time, Myke is in the bathroom and unable to supervise. Moe takes advantage of this and runs into the house, walking out several minutes later with an armful of different flammable fluids, such as paint cans and WD-40. As responsible teenagers, we debated the use of these highly-flammable substances like mature young adults should:

Dookie: “Uhhhh Moe, isn’t that shit really flammable?”
Moe: *chuckles* “Yeah.”
JRock: “Dude, this isn’t a good idea…”

We all exchange looks and then smile. Moe throws all the cans into the fire. Nothing happens other than a few miniature explosions as I watch the paint cans fold inwards. The fire then begins to grow. And grow. In a matter of minutes, the fire has grown exponentially to four or five feet tall, and we’re all transfixed on the burning flames. Although we are a bunch of foolish teenagers, there are some of us who still have a working conscious.

CubScout: “Yeah, guys I’m gonna go now. I have to, uhhh, go eat dinner.”
Dookie: “Ya… me too.”

CubScout walks away while we taunt him about how much of a bitch he is. Moe escorts Dookie to the front yard, conversing.

“DealenD” and I are left in the backyard, still transfixed on the fire. Myke walks out dazzled by the growing flames of Hell. He grabs his poking stick and leans over the fire to poke the cans around to help cultivate the fire. By this time, the fire is on the verge of becoming uncontrollable, so DealenD and I find more rocks to help better control it.

[Note: the next paragraph all happens within about three seconds.]
As DealenD and I are walking back with large rocks in our hands, Myke towers over the fire, excited to poke the flammable cans. The cans have already been in the fire for about ten or fifteen minutes, so we thought that whatever effect they would have on the fire already happened. We were wrong. As DealenD and I appraoch the fire, DealenD hurls his rock at the area surrounding the fire. He misses. Instead, it launches straight into the fire, punctures one of the paint cans, and then |BOOM|. Due to the explosion’s substantial force, DealenD and I fly backwards about six or seven feet onto our backs. As I tremble onto my feet, I see Myke screaming and running around the backyard in circles. After the initial shock fades, I recover enough of my senses to observe the back of the house, no longer a solid blue but a blue with white polkadots. Oh shit.

You see, when the explosion occurred, the flames unexpectedly erupted to a height of seven or eight feet tall, totally engulfing Myke. Remember what was in the fire? That’s right, paint cans and WD-40. The paint cans contained white paint. Not only had the flames burned Myke, but the white splashes of blistering paint from the cans splattered onto Myke, searing into his skin. Myke was not the only painted masterpiece of the fire. Everything within about twenty feet was speckled with white blotches; the deck, the house, the yard, and the trees. Yet miraculously, DealenD and I were never harmed.

By this time, Moe and Dookie came running back into the yard after hearing what “sounded like a gunshot.” Their faces filled with terror as Myke’s beige skin transformed into cherry red. We were all frozen with horror, unable to react. Myke, on the other hand, was running around in backyard, screaming:

“HOLY FUCK! Did you see that? DID YOU SEE THAT!!! THAT WAS CRAZY! ..Fuck.. ow…OW.. HOLY JESUS MOTHER OF GOD……oh my God… am I on fire? …HOLY FUCK, I’M ON FIRE!!!”

He runs into the house, down to the basement, and into a bathroom where he turns the shower stall lever to read “Cold”. I guess the pain impaired his thinking abilities because anyone with half a brain would know that putting cold water on such severe burns is the worst thing you can do. Nevertheless, the moron rips off his shirt and hops into the shower;

“……JESUS FUCKING CHRIST. HOLY SHIT. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH..SHHIIIAAATTTT!”

Moe then decides that this is an appropriate time to call for help;

*calmly and casually*
“Hey mom, how’s it going? I’m good. Listen, mom? Myke blew himself up. No, no. He blew HIMSELF up. Yeah…[hears Myke shriek agonizingly]…I think he’s melting.”

The guys and I couldn’t help but laugh.

Spiderman sucked.