“I saw it. I swear to God, I saw it. Right there!” 17-year-old Jane Marshall screamed, pointing to a three-foot wide patch of scorched grass. “It was shiny silver and shaped like a ball about twenty feet across…”
Mayor DeWitt interrupted.
“Now Jane, Bob here says he sold your brother a butane blowtorch two weeks ago.”
“You calling me a liar?” Jane demanded.
DeWitt glanced at his cell phone.
“Well, I’ll be darned if today isn’t April 1st.”