Telling the Parents

The silence after that Bomb was dropped left a throbbing hollow where speech should’ve been, where–if Mr. Thorpe had been a reasonable fellow–they’d be opening a bottle of wine and toasting one another, where it should’ve been joy. Sandra kept staring at her father in shock; it was Adam who was still smiling, as though the old man had given his blessing after all. “You ought to rethink that,” he said, ever so politely. “I’m not rethinking squat, you little shit. You stay away from my little girl, or I’ll have your life upside down with its knickers around its knees.” You ought to rethink that, Adam said again, but not aloud and not with his mouth, but with the finger of his right hand curled around the trigger of a .45. It was a less polite way of saying it, of course, but certainly more forceful. “Your blessing, sir, will be in the form of your unchanged will and life insurance policy, which, I believe, still list your only daughter as sole beneficiary.” Adam said. “Sandra, dear, tell your daddy goodbye.”

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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