“Not in front of the children. Fuck, Gregor, you’re such a bitch sometimes.”
Gregor looked up, confusion twisting his pudgy face, a rivulet of drool coursing down his chin and into his goatee. “What?”
“The children,” Shonda said. “The fucking children are going to shit themselves you cunt.”
“What?” Gregor said, a toy train hanging limply from his hand.
Shonda sighed. She heaved herself out of her La-Z-Boy, her legs wobbling under her girth. The panting trudge across the room was followed by eight sets of eyes, Gregor’s being particularly wide. She reached the corner behind the television where he had been sitting with two of his nephews before she snatched the toy train from his hands. She waved it a few times for effect, “Hey. You kids. You’ve got to,” she paused to breath, “be more of a man than this if.” She gave up, but did manage the energy to swing the caboose mightily at Gregor’s ear before she returned to the La-Z-Boy.
Gregor yelped and held his hand to his ear. His wet eyes sought his nephews for comfort. Their wide eyes stared back. The sounds of the presidential debate bounced around the room as no one said or did anything. Finally, one small voice from the tiniest of the nieces near the couch squeaked, “Fuck Gregor.”
Gregor cried.
