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The next card was indeed not even a card, but a small parcel cleverly disguised as a card, the strings that tied the tiny package together blending in perfectly with the paper wrappings. The Barrow-Wight did not hesitate in opening it, of course completely unaware of certain scares about mysterious parcels, and especially indifferent due to the face that he was already dead. Mortality is no long a concern once you're a Wight. And yet a man in yellow boots can still be bothersome. Alas, the life of a Wight is a difficult one, and so each and every card this particular Wight receives on his glorious day of death, when he thought he was only entering into retirement, is more than well deserved.
Untying the strings after his ghostly fingers had found them (I imagine he learned that from Partick Swayze), he deftly unwrapped the package, careful to save the paper.
*KALBANG* came the explosion, as thousands of...something flew at him with extreme force and velocity (which is really redundant, seeing as F=ma).
"Alack!" cried the Barrow-Wight.
But it was only Balrog Wingfetti.
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