Grampa Batty stirs from his afternoon nap just long enough to catch the end of a news bulletin.
"For-or-ornication!" spittle flying, the grizzled geezer howls, with the first syllable rising in a tremulous quiver. "Teen-agers! You can't trust 'em! Why in my day..."
Grampa stops in mid-sentence, falling back to sleep.
It was all just a dream, wasn't it? Nothing to it. Nothing at all.
Or perhaps it was something else entirely?