Dan, ‘The Man’, Can - Volume 19: The Way the Cookie Crumbles (or, The Meth-ly Hallows)

1

 Ryan Johnson slouched on a dingy chair in a seedy camping trailer on a quiet weeknight in spring. Overhead a bare lightbulb covered in hot cobwebs buzzed in duet with the sizable fleet of flies that wavered near to it. Across from the short plastic table beside Ryan sat a bloated, tawny, walrus-mustached burnout. He sported a drooping sleeveless shirt and cheap sunglasses, and was singularly concentrated on the table before him. Utilizing his food stamp card, lifelong friend and neighbor of Ryan, Dougie “Druggie” Doogan, scraped together a little pile of opaque, frosty crystals from the miniature mountain of the stuff waiting at the far end of the table. Chopping and crushing the bigger chunks into fine powder with the broad side of his card, Druggie addressed his guest. 

 “How’s Kerry doin’ lately?” He asked.

 “She’s a fucking cunt, I fuckin’ can’t stand the bitch anymore. Just a fuckin’ cunt. She’s a fuckin’ bitch. Fuckin’ hate her.” Ryan replied with unseemly vitriol. 

 “Damn,” Druggie mumbled uninterestedly. 

 After dividing the whitish pile of powder into two fat lines, Druggie removed the straw from his 64 ounce bucket of cola and insufflated one with great force. After being handed the straw, Ryan followed suit by sniffing the second line. Ryan squirmed and tottered in his chair as the powder ripped and burned through his weathered nasal cavity. Druggie leant back into his stiff, ratty couch and clasped his hands over his blocky head, which was interminably covered by a faded patriotic bandana. Familiar waves of drugged frenzy and rapture shot into their cooking brains all but instantly. 

 “Hot damn!” Druggie hooted. “That right there! That’s the shit right there! What I tell you! Good shit!”

 Ryan nodded with inattentive agreement. His eyes darted back and forth like a berserk Newton’s cradle. Druggie peered over Ryan’s hat at the thin, dented metal of his window blinds. A cyclopean crane fly waited there, its spindly legs and amber wings still as death. Struck with inspiration, Druggie’s eyes joined Ryan’s in vacillating across the trailer.

 “Man check out that fuckin’ big-ass mosquito hawk right there behind you,” Druggie urged. 

 “Fuckin’-A man,” Ryan said unenthused, twisting his neck to briefly glance at it. 

 “Check this shit out right quick. Be right back hold on,” Druggie said before pointedly raising from the couch. 

 Druggie ambled across the cramped trailer and climbed up into his bed, where he proceeded to crawl about and feel around the sides of his uncovered mattress for some unidentified object. Ryan quickly slid his cellphone out from its pocket and checked the time before his friend could see. 9:18 P.M. Aching for the solitude of his own backyard fortress, Ryan tried doggedly to conceal his growing impatience - an impatience only made more acute by the snowy powder. Before Ryan could muster an exit for himself, Druggie lowered from the bed. He held a long piece of green and orange plastic that resembled a shotgun. 

 “Fuckin’ salt gun man,” Druggie rasped excitedly. “Watch this fuckin’ thing right here.”

 Standing under the naked, scuzzy lightbulb, Druggie slyly scrutinized the crane fly on the blinds. He took a salt shaker from the kitchenette and unscrewed its lid. Popping open a tiny latch on his plastic gun, Druggie poured salt inside and then pumped its fore-end. He cast long, grim shadows across the trailer as he leveled the barrel at the motionless mosquito hawk. The gun’s plastic crunched and croaked in Druggie’s tightening grip. Finally he squeezed the trigger, and with a chunky clack the gun coughed out a cloud of minuscule salt rocks that rattled against the thin slats of the blinds. The particles rained down onto the shoulders of Ryan’s baby blue sweatshirt, and, much to Druggie’s disappointment, the crane fly remained unmoved. He pumped the salt gun once more.

 “Wait-wait-wait. This time man check this shit out.”

 He pumped the fore-end, aimed, and pulled the trigger. With a deafening blast, the window behind Ryan exploded and the blinds fell to the floor. The crane fly abandoned ship, fluttering swiftly into Druggie’s bewildered face.

 “Shit! Fuck! What the fuck!” Druggie hollered, pitching about the trailer and swatting at the air near his head. 

 “What the hell was that man?” Ryan cried. “What the hell kinda fuckin’ gun is that?”

 Druggie was too occupied by meth-addled insect combat to deliver an adequate response. Standing now, Ryan brushed away the salt from his shoulders, where his fingers found a wetness. Puzzled, Ryan peeked over his left shoulder to find that his sweater was darkening with blood behind the arm. A hammering pain came into focus when another thunderous shot bucked into the trailer from the outside. Then another, and another, and another. Ryan dove to the ground near the kitchenette as little holes exploded through the thin walls.

 “Hey, chief!” An unmistakable voice called into the trailer between blasts. “Hey, man!”

 “Fuckin’ shit,” Druggie whispered, crawling back up to his bed. “It’s fuckin' Mikey. He’s been on a fuckin’ sick one. Fuck! Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck!”

 Boom!

 “Hey, man!” Mikey hailed.

 Boom!

 “C’mon, chief!”

 Boom! Boom!

 “Heh-heh-heh! Hey, c’mon, chief!”

 Boom!

 “God-dammit,” Ryan huffed, rubbing his face vexedly. More pain pulsed from the buckshot holes in his arm. 

 “You can’t short Mad Mikey, man!” Mikey Bartel taunted. “Not even Druggie Dougie, chief! I love you, man! Heh-heh-hey! I love you” 

 Boom! Boom! Boom!

 “Aw, man! I love you, man!”

 Druggie falteringly peeked out the slanted windows beside his bed. With another shot, the hanging lightbulb burst and showered Ryan with glass shards and dusty spiderwebs. Several flies disintegrated. Mikey’s voice could be heard rounding the front of the trailer now, and Ryan muttered a colossal string of curses to himself as Mikey tried the locked door.

 “What the fuck Mikey!” Druggie yelled at the front door. “What the fuck man!”

 “Heh-heh-heh,” Mikey chuckled behind the quavering door. “Heh-heh-heh, c’mon man, don’t short me, man. I love you, man, you know I love you, man. You shorted Mad Mikey, heh-heh. C’mon chief, you know I love you, man!”

 Mikey quit the door and hopped off the metal stairs. A strained hush fell over the trailer as Mikey’s footsteps faded away. Ryan’s arm burned wildly and Druggie was practically hyperventilating. The two fifty-something men kept stock-still, giving no voice to the racing thoughts which presently terrorized their hyper-paranoid minds. Minutes that felt like weeks passed like this until Druggie broke the silence.

 “I think he’s gone,” he said, to what seemed to be himself. “Fuck.”

 “He got me man,” Ryan sighed desperately. “Hit my god-damn-fuckin’-ass arm.”

 “Goddammit,” Druggie hissed, feeling under his bandana for wounds. He still looked through the bedside windows, scanning the darkened backyard for any sign of the harrowing silhouette of Mad Mikey Bartel. “Lost his goddamn mind dude. I never short nobody. You know it. He’s been on a sick one for a month. Fuck.”

 Ryan elected at this point to pick himself back up and finally begin his departure. Gradually raising to his knees and then to his boots, Ryan leaned against the linoleum kitchenette countertop to gather his strength. He wondered what exactly to do. Should he drive to a hospital, high on meth? Should he sleep it off? He definitely wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. He’d need something to come down with, and Druggie didn’t supply that sort of thing. Should he call Lawrence? He had been ducking Lawrence lately. Wouldn’t Lawrence ask about the bloody sweatshirt, too? Ryan stared into the unlit sink as he pored over more minutia. His arm stung violently.

  The vivid image of his own couch inspired Ryan to determinedly push through the pain and get back home to rest. Aiming to pocket a bit of the meth mountain on his way out, Ryan opened his phone camera and turned on flash. Evidently, the mountain had been razed by one of Mikey’s shots, and most of its remnants had settled into the sagging fabric of Druggie’s couch. Ryan scanned the couch with his phone light. 

 “Hey RJ!” Mikey called from the decimated window.

 Ryan whipped around. The phone’s light glinted across Mikey’s grinning eyes and darkened teeth.

 “Fock,” Ryan gasped coldly. He made a mad dash for the front door.

 “Heh-heh-heh,” Mikey laughed as he shot into the trailer again. “I love you too, Ryan-man! He-e-ey, I love you, man!”

 Ryan bolted through the front door and sprinted across the bare dirt of Druggie’s backyard. Thin plumes of dust sprang up from the earth wherever his boots mashed it. More shotgun blasts rang out from behind Ryan, who was too adrenalized to turn around and track Mikey’s progress. Ryan made it through Druggie’s gate unscathed as dogs barked and sirens began to materialize in the distance. Ryan flew from the front yard to the street when he heard Druggie scream - a scream that was thusly quieted with another boom. Ryan entered the back alley and tore through the Johnson’s back gate, and into the blockhouse he slipped. He sat upright on his couch and shivered in the same old darkness as a gunfight unfolded catty-corner to the Johnson home. A police helicopter appeared overhead, its spotlight wickedly darting across the neighborhood. Trembling with adrenaline, fear, and meth, Ryan realized that he’d probably left a trail of blood droplets leading directly to his abode. Then he thought about the footprints left in Druggie’s backyard. And the fingerprints on the table and countertop. Then, in an icy shock of horror, Ryan realized that he’d also dropped his cellphone in the trailer.

2

 Midmorning the day after next, Ryan sat shotgun beside his father, who had taken him to the hospital the morning prior. Gerald drove home carefully and sucked on a tooth pick, searching for words as he eyed Ryan’s bandaged arm. Ryan had not slept a wink and was fairly cranky.

 “Yer over there doin’ that dope,” Gerald grumbled.

 “No, Pops,” Ryan hissed babyishly.

 “You told the doctor,” Gerald said shortly. “Doin’ dope.”

 “It was a misunderstanding,” Ryan huffed while rubbing his face. “They don’t speak English anymore.”

 “I sure wish you’d stop smokin’ that stuff.”

 “Pops! I don’t! I don’t know what to tell ya! I don’t!”

 “Both a yer friends just died cause of you.”

 “No they didn’t!” Ryan cried madly.

 “Mmm,” Gerald murmured. “Peace officers killed the one and he had killed the other. Allegedly.”

 “I was just hanging out, Pops. We weren’t doing anything. It was Mikey! He shot me through the goddamn window!”

 “It wasn’t Mikey.”

 “Yes it was!” Ryan wiped his face in exasperation.

 “Mmm. Mikey. ‘Hey chief oh hey hello man groovy chief.’ No. Don’t think so. He couldn’t handle a bicycle. Forget a shotgun,” Gerald grunted in finality. 

 “Ah,” Ryan stress-sighed. His fossilized fingers sounded like struck matches when they rubbed against his bristle.

 “It was Dougie’d shot ya. You tried ta rob ‘em and it backfired. Mikey just got caught up in it.”

 “What!” Ryan yelped. “C’mon. Come on!”

 “Mmm. I dunno bout you, Ryan,” Gerald leered at his aging son. “You been actin’ awful silly as of late. How many times ya fixin’ ta get shot this year?”

 “Ah,” Ryan stress-sighed again, opting to remain silent from this point forward.

 “Police were back at my door yesterday mornin’ cause of you. All over again.” Gerald started. “Y’know, they found yer phone over there in that Dooger trailer. I heard tell of some strange photographs that they findin’ in it. Person of interest.”

 “What! They’re going through my goddamn pictures?” Ryan wailed. 

 “Person of interest. Mmm. Tell me they seein’ mutilated dogs on yer phone. Phone that I pay for. And yer takin’ pictures of dead dogs. What kinda feller's doin’ that! Y’oughta turn yerself in. Already had to smooth-talk deputies n' play dumb at the doctor for ya. Mmm. Yer time’s tickin’.”

 Ryan remained quiet.

 “Yer time’s tickin’, Ryan,” Gerald repeated. “I always tell yer mom I shoulda been around more n’ beat the hell outta you lousy kids. Mmm. Maybe you wouldn’t be doin’ all that dope n’ dog killin’. Canicide. Hmph!”

 “I don’t kill any damn dogs, Pops!” Ryan whined immaturely. 

 “I seen that brand a yers, Ryan. Yer all screwy on the dope! Probably smokin’ dog’s toenails n’ teeth. Eatin’ their viscera, tannin’ their hides. In my backyard! No good,” Gerald declared. “Yer time’s tickin’, Ryan. Yer father mighta been too easy on ya, but now the law is on yer ass. It’s a tough go fer folks like you in the clink.”

 “The clink? The clink, Pops?” Ryan jeered incredulously. 

 Gerald’s car pulled into the driveway and the engine shut off. After pocketing his keys and leaning aside to open the door, Gerald paused.

 “Y’know, guy,” Gerald said sadly. “I just can't figger out what happened with you.”

 Gerald exited the car. Ryan watched him mosey to the front door and disappear behind it. The hot engine ticked lightly as it settled. A monolithic fatigue was taking hold of Ryan, who suddenly struggled to keep his head upright. The adrenaline and drugs had exited his system entirely, leaving him with a dire physical debt which he could neither fight or control. Beyond exhausted, Ryan’s head thudded against the dashboard as he lost consciousness. The cab had already begun to heat up under the relentless sun, and, before too long, the continually-dehydrated Ryan would be in immanent danger.

 Finished with her errands, Momma Jeannie shortly thereafter pulled into the Johnson driveway and noticed a thick coating of condensation dripping inside Gerald’s car windows. She tottered over to the passenger side and rapped on it with a single knuckle to no reply. Shielding her eyes from the sunlight, she peered inside as best she could. A body was hazily visible behind the steam.

 “Ryan?” Jeannie hollered.

 The trademark holler that Ryan had heard his entire life instinctually jolted him awake, just as though he were running late for school again. He was drenched in sweat and woozy from dehydration and heat exhaustion. Weakly unlocking and opening the door, Ryan poured out from it and laid on the driveway’s baking concrete. 

 “C’mon now, Ryan!” Jeannie huffed.

 “It’s okay mom,” Ryan groaned. 

 “Where’s your father?”

 “He’s inside.”

 “Okay.” Jeannie paused. “There’s soda in the car.”

 After lingering next to her downed son for an awkward spell, Jeannie made her way into the house. Ryan crawled to the rear of his mother’s SUV and yanked open the backdoor. A black case of sodas was waiting there.

 “Burpsi Zero,” Ryan chided. “Fuck.”

 Begrudgingly, Ryan got to his feet and took the box of sodas back into his backyard hideaway. He chugged one soda and burped up thick foam before falling into a deep, dreamless slumber on his couch. In the main house, the Johnson elders bickered over the condition of their son, blaming one another for his bizarre outcome. The dispute was only quashed when the topic of where to eat for dinner came up. They decided on a mediocre diner.

3

 The O’Nays clan - sans Gay - left for a trip to the aquarium earlier that morning. Gay sat on the back porch drinking coffee and listening to the chittering of birds and crowing of roosters in the bright blueness of the rising day. His eyes refused to meet with the premium storage shed that he’d already spent countless lonely hours inside. It inadvertently functioned as the mausoleum which entombed the vaporous remnants of a better, successful version of Gay, a version that would surely remain dormant and hypothetical for the rest of his days. The only redeeming quality of the shed was its build grade and the fact that it also housed his fluffy tuxedo cat, Bissa, who more often than not was perched in the front window like an animatronic owl.

 The night before, Gay had overheard his parents arguing in the kitchen. Though specifics were blurred and muffled by the walls, Gay was certain that he had heard something concerning Ryan’s cellphone and dead dogs. And, naturally, Father Dick had shouted ‘tweaker madness’ several times. Squabbles were perpetual in the O’Nays home, but this one seemed utterly peculiar to Gay. The strange tone of their voices, the unrehearsed phrasing, the fact that Mother Pan had demanded no prize afterwards. Unquestionably, something was off.

 The house phone rang. Gay considered letting it go, but begrudgingly rose to answer it. Once at the sliding glass door, the phones silenced mid-ring. Gay paused and listened. A low, beastly voice could faintly be heard inside the house, a voice that was evidently speaking on the phone. Neither of the O’Nays dogs barked at it. The bright reflections of the backyard against the glass backdoor made it impossible to see inside. Tingling with fear, Gay backed away from the house. The voice was still speaking when Gay fumblingly scampered to his shed.

 Hoping that the intruder had not spotted him, Gay shut and locked his door and peeped out of Bissa’s window. The O’Nays home displayed no signs of life until the garage door started to open. Thinking that his parents were returning home early from their outing after having yet another argument, Gay left the safety of his shed in order to intercept them. Then the dogs trotted out from the garage.

 They were a strange looking duo, being a large black lab and squat French bulldog - but in this instance their oddest aspect would be the accessories which they carried. In each of their mouths were large hunting knives; a holster with two handguns was strapped to the bulldog’s chest, a rifle strapped to the lab along with several belts of ammunition. They hurried towards the opening back gate with single-minded intent, failing to even notice Gay. Perplexed into silence, Gay simply could not believe his eyes.

 “Beela?” Gay finally squeaked. The lab turned around.

 “Eff yeuh,” Beela growled through her knife.

 “Kiss mah ayss,” the bulldog, Slub, added.

 The dogs pressed on down the alley as the doubly stunned Gay recognized that the voice he had heard answer the phone was none other than Beela’s. Assuming that he had hallucinated or imagined the previous ten minutes, Gay went back into his trailer and lay on his little bed. Bissa was awoken from his nap by Gay’s entering and stretched decadently on his pillow before rising and arching his back. He meowed gently.

 “What, are you gonna start talking shit too?” Gay said.

 “No!” Bissa whispered mischievously.

 Gay threw a sock at him and turned on his side to face the wall.

------

 The dogs made for the crossroads of the bridal trail, where they met with a small militia of similarly armed dogs of varying shape, color, and size. They murmured to one another in secret, regularly watching over their shoulders for signs of pesky humans. Wise to their operation, the dogs which were fenced in the backyards strewn along the trail refrained from barking at the offbeat aggregation. In mere minutes their plan was hatched, and their pact was sealed. Vowing death before dishonor, the hounds hoofed it to their battleground.

4

 Ryan Johnson was still fast asleep. His parched, wilted body required more time to recover whenever he binged on chemicals. His organs struggled their damndest to extract whatever rehabilitative ingredients could be found in the can of Burpsi Zero Ryan had drank. Unheard, his agonized stomach splashed and croaked vulgarly. His snoring was like a death rattle, the chest barely rising or falling. Flies circled unmolested above the couch, and the box of soda remained outside the fridge. Unexpectedly, there was a bright scratching at the door. Ryan briefly stirred before rolling over onto his side. The scratches grew more rabid until Ryan sat upright and rubbed his face. A small dog was whining outside.

 “God-dammit,” he hissed.

 Ryan rose and opened the door. His estranged, geriatric, black-and-white chihuahua-mix, Jasper, was waiting there, wagging his entire body with excitement. Elated, albeit confused, Ryan crouched down to pet Jasper on the head. Jasper’s fanned tail batted the tall blades of grass which surrounded the small concrete patio. The smiling Ryan rested his fists on his hips as Jasper ascended from his front legs to sit straight up.

 “Heh-heh-hey, what a good boy Jasper,” Ryan said.

 “Atta-hack!” Jasper cried.

 From every direction dogs charged at Ryan, who stumbled backward into his blockhouse and fell over the couch. The canine gang surrounded him, as Beela, taking up the rear, closed the door behind them with her scythe-shaped tail. Jasper jumped onto the coffee table and sat erect again, a gun borrowed from Slub held in his mouth and pointed directly at Ryan’s face. Ryan bewilderedly gazed down the barrel.

 “What-the-!” he blurted.

 “Shut uh-hup,” Jasper said. “We know what you do-hoo!”

 “Yesh! Eff yeuh!” Beela growled. "You musht die!"

 “Eff the you the Ry-of-an!” The fat, golden chihuahua named Aldo said.

 “Buncha gay!” Slub cried.

 “You killed Spu-hunt!” Jasper wailed.

 Speechless, Ryan looked each dog over and his lips quivered in astonishment. He tried to stand, but the hefty Beela leapt to tackle him. Ryan was leveled.

 “Oop!” Ryan wheezed. “M’gorch!”

 “Shut ahp!” Beela said. “And confessh!”

 “You must confess, you cow-of-ard!” Aldo snarled.

 “What the!” Ryan shouted while viciously rubbing his face. “I didn’t do shit!”

 “He lies! He tells the lies!” Aldo gasped.

 “Fuck you-hoo,” Jasper said.

 “Dat’s mah ayss!” Slub chided. "Don' like dat!"

 “Oh bullshit!” Ryan yelled. “I didn’t do fuckin’ shit!”

 The deafening clap of a gunshot resounded in the walls of Ryan’s backyard playhouse. Ryan jolted in anguish and held the arm that was hit - the same arm that had been shot by Mad Mikey Bartel just two days before. Ryan cursed and breathed heavily as the dogs continued to amateurishly interrogate him. Blood spilled out as quickly as the accusations of canicide. The questioning was futile, especially since Ryan was even crankier than earlier. Once the hounds became wholly fed up with his stubbornness, they began to ominously circle him, growling in chorus.

------

 Momma Jeannie was sitting at the kitchen table watching an infomercial when a cacophony of knocking sounded at the Johnson’s front door. The infomercial, advertising a set of candle toppers, kept Jeannie’s attention as she ignored the knocks. Until, after an exceptionally violent set of knocks, a booming voice declared that it was the police.

 “Oh, fiddle!” Jeannie sibilated.

 She ambled to the big wooden door and opened it with a long creak.

 “Hi!” Jeannie said, purposefully blocking the view of her messy home.

 “Is Ryan Johnson home?” One of the two officers shouted.

 “May I ask why?” Jeannie inquired, clasping her hands to her hips.

 “Ma’am, if you don’t cooperate, that’s interfering with police investigation,” the other cop said.

 “Ok for you!” Jeannie piped. “Koop, Koop!”

 A dozen hens flapped down from the sky and descended onto the police. They clawed, pecked, and ripped at their heads and uniforms with a vengeance, and down the officers went. With the police investigation successfully interfered with, Jeannie ‘Kookie’ Johnson shut the door to the sounds of squawking and hollering in the front lawn. After cackling like a witch and rubbing her hands together, Momma Kookie scooted quickly as her dilapidated slippers could carry her as she made for the back door. Once opening it and landing on the back patio, she heard a flurry of gunshots emanate from Ryan’s backyard fortress. The armed gang of dogs thusly poured out from its door and all fled in differing directions. 

 “Puh-huh!” She gasped.

5

 A soft organ played melancholy chords in the otherwise silent funeral home. A small wooden casket laid supine on a white marble block in the back of the eerie room. The coffin was closed. Circles of flowers bedecked with photos and ribbons surrounded it, and a small podium waited beside. Polite coughs and small murmurings started to materialize as more people filed in, a scattered mix of family and local burnouts. The two rows of pews practically segregated themselves. 

 Gerald Johnson was seated in the second row holding his wife’s knee. Jeannie was touching a tissue to her red, teary eyes. She sighed at the casket and blew her nose melodiously. Gerald kept his sunglasses on. Flies alighted on his gelled white hair. He took a pamphlet out from the pew before him and opened it. There was a painting of Jesus Christ healing a blind man, who glowed yellow in his holy presence. Gerald closed the pamphlet and slid it back in the tray, folding his arms over his great paunch. The minister then approached the podium and delivered a standard eulogy before offering the chance for others to speak. Gerald rose after patting his wife’s knee twice. He unintentionally broke wind just before taking the floor.

 “Yer probably wonderin’ how a skinny guy like that came from a guy like me,” Gerald began to some laughter. “I been wonderin’ a while my own-self.” Gerald stopped and looked down at the floor. “How a guy like that came from me. Mmm. Well. He was a good boy. At farst. Then he got t’bein' silly somewhere ‘long the way. I take th’ blame. Wasn’t around enough. Didn’t beat ‘em enough. Lookit h’what happens. Y’get shot down by a buncha dogs.” Gerald paused again, shaking his head solemnly. The room was dead quiet. “Makes me worry. I look at some a you.” Gerald turned his head to face Gay, who was sitting in the third row behind Jeannie. “An’ when I see ya, I see a lotta Ryan. Mmm. M-bep, ahh.” Gerald belched. “With yer failed dreams. Baldin’ head. Weird hands. Mmm-mmh.” Gerald looked over the crowd, but before Gerald could continue speaking, Gay rushed the stage.

 “Failed dreams, have I?” Gay yelled as he toppled over the flowers. “Balding head, is it? Weird hands, are they?” He shouted, matching each outcry with a smashed photograph and kicked-over podium. Dick promptly tackled and straddled Gay. “You’re just practicing your police tactics on me!” Gay shrieked. Dick socked the back of his head.

 The room promptly devolved into chaos. Arguments, fistfights, and small fires emerged nigh instantaneously. Unaware of it all, May O’Nays continued to hunch over her portable gaming device, even as fire was visibly reflected on its dim screen. Pan was scanning the room for somebody to have an altercation with, and settled for her plump father.

 “How could you!” Pan screeched, pointing a wrinkly finger at Gerald. "I can't believe this!"

 “Say h’what!” Gerald yapped. “I never gotta finish!”

 “You were always fat!” Pan mawkishly bawled, covering her teary eyes and scuttling towards the exit.

 Alarms began chirping and the fire sprinklers sprayed the room with water. The pews were being broken apart and the pieces used as melee weapons. Jeannie and Lerna were fencing with tall candelabras. Several of Ryan’s friends were clutching pocketknife wounds in their guts. Someone was being choked with a twisted wreath of flowers. May, enraged at her game, chucked the device towards the stage and it cracked against Father Dick’s head. He fell over, freeing Gay to join the arbitrary brawl. He ripped a blazing curtain off from a window and whipped and swung the flaming end at a group of people he never met. Gerald fled for the bathroom. He didn't make it in time.

------

 “You know, Gay, when you become an agent of chaos during a somber ceremony like that, it really makes me look bad,” Father Dick whined, driving home with his offspring in the backseat and Gerald riding shotgun. (Pan went home with Jeannie after their candelabra duel ended; Lerna lost an arm and nearly bled out.) “That entire building burned down. You know that?”

 “I know dad,” Gay mumbled.

 “Several people died in there because of you.”

 “I know dad.”

 “I know your mom is unhappy with you right now.”

 “I know dad.”

 “And I doubt they were able save your uncle’s coffin,” Dick said gravely.

 “Hmm!” Gerald interjected. “Free cremation! O-kay!”

 They stopped at a mediocre diner for an early dinner. Gerald had overcooked ribeye and left a hefty tip.