It was 1988, The Furby came out. My sister got one and when I came I got it. It always did what I wanted. Until one day, I was playing with it. It started getting an attitude. It always said no.
One day I got so angry with it I cried. It made a screech. Mom took the batteries out and hid it downstairs.
A couple years later, I was almost 4 years old. And I was ready to play with Furby again. I reset Furby and he took on his normal behavior for a while, and then started to get angry again. I was angry, I opened him up to take out the batteries. But I was shocked! There were no batteries! I threw him into the cellar and locked it.
The next day I was ready to throw him out. He was not there. He had somehow gotten out from the basement onto the porch. I went outside with a net, and grabbed Furby with it. I dumped him into the trash can at the edge of the driveway. And just in time. The garbage truck was coming. Furby took a glance at the truck, and started screaming for mercy not to be crushed. I said "Furby, prepare to meet your biggest doom." It was a joy to see him die.
I then got a new Tuxedo Furby. He was normal. And when I talked about the old Furby, he said "Furby Bad." And I agreed with him. But a year later he died. I held his funeral. Now I have no more Furbys. And that is the end of my very scary, but true story.
Sent in by CeCe