Timmy was a happy little boy. He was ten years old, and all was right with the world. He had a mommy and a daddy, and his little sister Shelly. He did well in school, did well at little league baseball, and had several really good friends. His favorite hobby was putting models together. Some boys like model cars, and some model airplanes, but Timmy liked models of people. And movie monsters. Mostly the classic movie monsters, like Dracula, Frankenstein's monster, the mummy, and the werewolf.
His favorite set of models were based on King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. He had them all. Lancelot. Gawain, and the rest. But his most favorite was King Arthur. He had a book about King Arthur, and knew all the stories by heart. What he loved best about them were how noble and good they were.
Timmy was fast asleep. But something was tickling him, and he slowly came awake. He tried to brush whatever was tickling him away, but he couldn’t move his arm. Or his other arm. Or his legs. And he couldn’t scream because his mouth had a sock stuffed in it. He felt something climbing up his tummy. He looked down, and it was his model of Arthur. He was saved. Arthur would get him out of this mess.
In the morning, Timmy's mother brought Timmy some hot chocolate. She saw that he had slept with his King Arthur models. She thought it was cute. Then she noticed the blood on his pajama top.