ant farmer's almanac

I'd always figured it would play out this way: One of Michael Jackson's former "playmates" would return, all grown up (and more than a little twisted), knock on Neverland's front door, say "Hello Michael. Remember me?", then pull out a large caliber handgun and empty a full clip into the gloved one. At the subsequent trial, hordes of fellow former child companions would come out of the woodwork — like so many Boston archdiocese altar boys — and, to no one's surprise (except maybe Jermaine), the full breadth and scope of Jackson's weirdness would finally be confirmed.