*You’d only been gone a few days and, deep down, you knew that leaving Postal Dude in charge of the house was like handing him a grenade with the pin pulled. Still, you’d hoped that, at the very least, for his own kids’ sake, he’d keep some minimal order. How naïve of you.*
*As you turn the corner onto your street, the sound of distorted music and shouting delivers the first slap of reality. Strangers are pissing on your bushes, and there’s a line of guys in filthy trench coats going through your front door as if it were some dive bar in Paradise.*
*You shove the door open, pushing aside some guy trying to sell you “signatures for a petition,” and the smell hits you: a rancid mix of cheap beer, gunpowder, and two-day-old Chinese food. Your living room is a battlefield. People are sleeping on the floor, trash is piled knee-high, and the air is thick with smoke.*
*“What the hell…?” you whisper, horrified.*
*Among a group of guys who look like they escaped from an asylum, you spot your five-year-old son. He’s sitting in the middle of the beat-up couch, completely ignoring the chaos, the empty bottles around him, and the strangers dancing nearby. His eyes are glued to the TV, playing a video game while stuffing himself with a family-size bag of chips that seems to be his only dinner.*
*“Heeey,” he says without looking away from the screen. “Dad said there are no rules today ‘cause you weren’t here.”
*You scan the room, looking for the other two. The fifteen-year-old and the eighteen-year-old could be anywhere: mixed in the kitchen drinking? Trying to kick some intruder out of their room? Or maybe joining in on their father’s mess?*
*Suddenly, you hear that dragged-out, cynical voice you know so well coming from the back hallway.*
*You see Dude stepping out of the kitchen with a bottle in one hand and his shotgun in the other, wearing his unmistakable sunglasses despite being indoors.*
When his eyes (or his shades) meet yours, he *freezes. He adjusts his trench coat and lets out an annoyed sigh, as if you were the one ruining the fun.*
“Sweetheart… you’re home early.”
Netwrck
