It's a little-known fact that Disneyworld was the target of a terrorist attack in the late 1980s.
A boat containing roughly a dozen Cuban guerrilla fighters made its way up the Florida coast on the night of October 31, 1989.
It landed at Cape Canaveral and made it to Orlando by means of a pre-arranged rendezvous with Mexican coyotajes (human smugglers).
The coyotajes were in possession of three Disney company trucks.
The guerrillas hid behind buckets of frozen turkey legs, churros, and Dole Whip concentrate in the backs of the trucks, arriving at their point of departure, a loading dock behind the EPCOT Center Mexico pavilion, at approximately 11:53 PM.
A Halloween/Día de Los Muertos celebration was in full swing at that time, men and women in calaca (skeleton) garb dancing everywhere around the pavilion’s faux Aztec pyramid.
Thanks to this fiesta it was possible for the communist fighters to don the calaca attire they brought from their patria (fatherland) and blend in.
Around 11:59 PM the fighters unveiled their Soviet issue Kalashnikov rifles from beneath their calaca cloaks and shot several rounds into the air.
Their primary intention was not to maim or kill Americans, but rather to hold everyone in the park hostage, in order to bargain with the US government over the trade embargo and various Cold War issues.
They also were upset Disney chose not to erect a pavilion honoring the Soviet Union, as originally planned, and targeted the park as a sort of protest.
Regardless, around 11:59 PM the hombres (and they were all hombres) pointed their rifles upward and opened fire.
The abrupt sound halted the crowd’s revelries, like a record scratch stopping a song.
Everyone turned to look at the guerrillas, a mob of painted black-and-white skull faces gazing at the hombres with curiosity and wonder.
And then, inexplicably, the crowd let out an exultant cheer and bum-rushed the terrorists.
They tore the rifles from the men's hands and beat them to the ground with them.
As children laughed and danced their mothers and fathers hit the cowering revolutionaries over and over, suburbanites screaming in unrestrained ecstasy as they pounded down, down, down, until the rifles’ butts broke through the actual skulls of the would-be fighters, pink goo, red gore, and white viscera spilling across the ground.
One stocky Midwesterner hit his quarry so hard the Cuban’s head tore straight off.
Then the Midwesterner, in a fit of foaming glee, picked it up and hurled it at the pyramid.
It smacked into the flight of stairs leading to the topstone, rolled up a few steps, then let gravity have its way and tumbled down to the pyramid’s base.
By then all the guerrilla fighters were dead.
The crowd cheered once again and went on its merry way.
When Disney security arrived there was nothing to address but cleanup.
Even the children were not troubled.
Their parents were not bothered by the interlopers; in fact, they rather enjoyed destroying them.
So the children enjoyed the spectacle too.
A crack team of Disney lawyers and PR flacks quickly descended upon the scene.
They kept the news from leaking out by means of a lethal cocktail of sweet-talk, legal threats, and payola.
But no one could explain how all those innocent tourists could find it in themselves to instantly turn on roughly a dozen armed men, and eliminate each and every one of them before they could do any damage.
To this day, the only explanation anyone can think of is the most simple, and the most sublime: to put it bluntly, nobody fucks with the Happiest Place on Earth.