The Wacko

THE WACKO
    Once a wacko fell right off the ceiling.
    Smack in the middle of the head table at a political victory banquet. To see this creature sprawled there in a soup tureen and bubbling away as it gathered its scattered wits was startling, to say the least. Hadn’t anyone noticed it hanging upside down where the slightest misstep could land it precisely where it had fallen and splatter the celebrating guests with the consequences? Hadn’t anybody been paying the slightest attention to this menace dangling above them?
    Wackos weren’t exactly an unknown species, after all, particularly during this time of global warming that caused them to engage in more-than-usual displays of aggressiveness. As body temperatures and brain temperatures soared in these otherwise cold-blooded beings, they could be observed scurrying about in broad daylight with ever-greater abandon, no longer darting furtively here and there as they long had in order to avoid public notice. While in the depths of the night, shining a beam into any dark corner might reveal twitching, twisting forms huddled close, as if plotting an all-out assault upon the unsuspecting.
    So why hadn’t anyone raised the alarm before the wacko in question fell into the soup, soon to be joined by others of its kind who lost their footing on the ceiling as well and rained down like a plague even the Bible couldn’t have prepared anyone for: a frenzy of hissing wackos that left none of the election banquet unspoiled and the faces of nearly all the attendees badly soiled? 
    And what was to keep this unnatural horror from happening again?