“Break it up!” yelled the producer. “I said break it up!“

The two children before him stopped. One of them, a small boy of five or six, had numerous bruises and cuts on his face. The other boy, this one about eight or nine, was sitting on his chest, fist raised for another blow.

“Get off him!” the producer bellowed. The older child stood up, fists balled at his sides. The producer bent over and helped the younger child up. “Sandy,” he called to his assistant, “take… What’s your name, son?”

“Ricky,” the boy said, choking back tears.

“Take Ricky to the hospital, please. And call his parents, let them know what happened.”

“Yes, sir,” Sandy said. “Come on, Ricky. Let’s get you looked after.” They left immediately.

“As for you, do you have any idea what happens to children with your kind of temper?”

“No,” the boy said defiantly.

“The get recruited to help us take over… everything.” The producer looked behind the boy. “Will he do, boss?”

A grin split Barney’s large purple face. “Oh, he’ll do nicely.”