The rock was heavy but not: it had a hole in it.
In the hole were two small scorpions, pinkish-gray. They were sleeping.
I carried the rock around the house and showed the scorpions to the dogs. They were not impressed.
The scorpions woke up and the war began — I flung the rock and flapped my hand as the smaller of the two scorpions had crawled out and onto my flesh.
I crushed them: one by dropping the rock on it and standing on the rock, the other by stomping.
I lifted the rock and saw a dark stain on the rug from where the small scorpion met its demise, its carcass lay crushed to the left of the stain.
The second, larger scorpion was in two pieces: it wasn’t real. Its mechanical innards showed like the gears inside a timepiece.
And then, I woke up.