He mocks me; he, all firm and mighty and hear me roar.  Belching heat out upon this space.  And I feed him good.  Fill full his mouth - leaking a trickle of smoke like a french poet - while he sings his crackle - wild and rich and flames pop hard like breaking bones. 

And what should he do but reach for the sky - because isn't hell always reaching for heaven? For the coolness of the air up there?  I am near pulling the car from it's sight when my eyes drift above the shingles to see the tongues of flame licking against the sky, lurking out from under the chimney hood, flirting with a spark on a roof that covers my whole world.

My father's voice leaks cautious worry across cellular waves as he directs my action to affirm my sovereignty over this combustive rebellion.  I take it in hand - this step-by-step instruction - and grip tight my control over the wild. 

His neck blooms red and I see visions of buckling cast iron and the huffing and puffing and it all falling down but I persevere and I am victorious - thwarting the threat and quietly heroic.

Thus ends the tale of the tragedy that wasn't.