Once upon a time there was a small boy named Michael. He was a normal boy, who enjoyed doing all the other things other normal boys do; except, Michael liked to cut up Styrofoam with his little toy plastic knife. No one is quite sure why Michael liked to do this - just that he did. So while other boys banged upon inanimate objects with sticks and threw rocks at each other, Michael would sneak through packages, searching for Styrofoam to chop into tiny, messy pieces.

Then came the special box. It came as any other box did: in the mail. But this one was special. Michael could tell from the look of it, and the sound it made when the postman rattled it. This box had Styrofoam in it. Not just any Styrofoam, either: the perfect piece of Styrofoam. Michael had to have it.

Unfortunately for Michael, this box was addressed to the man in Room Eleven. Room Eleven was always dark; its windows never open to allow even the faintest glimmer of sunlight to penetrate within. Indeed, no light was allowed into Room Eleven at all, save for flickers of light from a computer screen that sat upon the desk in the corner – the only piece of furniture in the room.

The man who lived in Room Eleven was seldom seen by anyone, and only came out of his room to receive packages. All of his food and supplies were delivered to him via the post. To the extent of anyone’s knowledge, he has never left the room at all. Some thought he was crazy, others lonely, and still others evil. Whatever he was, he would certainly not allow anyone to cut up his Styrofoam.
But this did not stop Michael from trying. Michael’s first attempt was unsuccessful. He asked the man if he needed the Styrofoam, and the man said yes, he did. He then asked what it would be needed for, and the man said he was not sure, but he knew he would need it. Michael then told the man that if he did not know why he needed it, then surely he didn’t need it at all, and Michael should be allowed to have it. At this the man told Michael to leave and stop bothering him.

So Michael tried again. This time Michael snuck in behind the man’s back, quietly, soundlessly. But just as he began to pick up the Styrofoam, the man turned and saw him. The man chased Michael out yelling about how he would indeed need the Styrofoam and that Michael should leave him alone. Or else.

But Michael was not ready to give up. The Styrofoam haunted him, filling his dreams, begging him to get it. His toy knife seemed to glow when he looked at it. His Styrofoam cutting arm tingled with the sensation. Michael had to have the piece of Styrofoam.

So, Michael watched the man, waiting. When the man got up to go to the bathroom, Michael struck. He dashed it, grabbing the Styrofoam and slashing it up on the spot. His whole being filled with a giddy glee. He had done it! He had destroyed the perfect piece of Styrofoam! Snatching up one little fragment as a trophy he dashed out of Room Eleven and back to his own house.

The next day Michael did not come when his mother called him for breakfast. When she went to check on him all she found were pieces of Styrofoam littered all over his bedclothes. They searched for hours, days, weeks, months, until finally giving up. They never found any trace of Michael.

The moral of this story, children, is simple: some things are not to be tampered with. A perfect piece of Styrofoam is one of them.