“Wanna drink?” Randy asked, waving with his pistol to a nearly empty 1.75 liter bottle of Idaho Silver vodka. The Outdoor Channel played in the background, featuring a wild hog seen through night vision, entering a feeding station. Randy’s head seemed heavy, and he nodded briefly before snapping back up. “It’s lassst cuh-all.”

“Son, why don’t you put down the gun, so you can pour me a drink?” Gramps asked, holding his hands open to indicate he was not threatening.

“Ya think I’m shtupid, like…ol’ whatsis name.” Randy weaved like a sailor on a boat struck by a wave that only he could feel. “Misser limp dick. Fuck ‘er with yer money, yahhh, go ‘head. Go on!”

Jason looked at the gun in his dad’s hand, which he waved as he raged. It was a High Point, one of the cheapest handguns a man could buy, a black, clunky gun, which had to be fat and heavy because it was made of the cheapest metal, and if it were built in the dimensions of a normal gun, it would blow apart when fired. Jason looked for a thin red dot in the slide indicating the safety was off, but the gun weaved in his father’s unsteady hand.

“’Til death d’us part. Ya got yer wissh.” Randy brought the black pistol up to his head, aiming the muzzle at his temple. Jason and his grandfather froze in place, not wanting to make any sudden moves. In the background, a rifle boomed on the TV, followed by the wild boar at the feeding station taking a round through the spine and instantly dropping onto the scattered corn, kicking up dust when it fell. Jason realized there was no chance to disarm his father without running the risk of triggering a shot in the struggle.

Randy’s trigger finger tightened, and then tightened again. In his confusion, he removed the gun from his temple and studied it, using his pudgy thumb to try to take off the safety.

Jason sprang, jumping for the pistol, grateful that its cheap design made the manual safety notoriously small and difficult to release, even more so by a man who is three sheets to the wind. Jason got his hands on the pistol, and his thigh slammed into the side of his dad’s chair as momentum carried him forward. Jason plowed through the TV tray, knocking off the vodka bottle, and sending a shower of pills raining over the carpet, yet Jason held onto the gun fiercely. The force of Jason’s fall yanked his father out of his seat, and the heavy man punched Jason in the face as he fell.

“Hansoff m’ gun, dammit!” Randy cursed and reared back to throw a second punch.

Gramps moved with unexpected speed and caught his son’s arm before he could throw the next punch. Randy’s left hand reached for the pistol, and his fingers clawed at the trigger guard. Grandpa then sank in a rear naked choke, being careful not to put his forearm across the windpipe, which could prove fatal. Instead, the old man placed his son’s throat in the crook of his elbow and hooked his feet around Randy’s legs to keep his from kicking or crawling out of the choke. Grandpa sank in the choke by tightening his arms and arching his back.

Jason scooted out from under his father and stood with the backs of his calves to the couch, watching incredulously as his grandfather choked out his dad, which Jason was pretty certain had to be a tell-tale sign of a dysfunctional family.

Jason’s father went from clawing at the gun to clawing at gramps’ elbow. He tried to rake the old man with his fingernails, but he had chewed them short. Randy struggled, and gradually grew sleepy, then went limp. Gramps kicked off the heavy man, who rolled over onto the floor.

“Is he dead?” Jason asked.

“No. I put him in a sleeper.” Gramps got up with a groan. “He won’t be out for long, so stay on your toes.”

“What’s that smell?” Jason wondered if his dad had started raising animals on the property.

“Your father just shit himself, and it’s on my pants.” Gramps held his pants gingerly, pinching them between his fingertips. “Keep an eye on him while I go find something to change into.”

Gramps excused himself and went down the hallway to the back room. The whole trailer was thin and flimsy, making it impossible for anyone to walk without causing swaying, rattling, and shaking. Jason heard water running, followed by closet doors and drawers snapping open and shut. His father stirred on the floor, and started to push himself up, but fell face-down onto the carpet, and soon he was snoring. The stench was overpowering, and Jason could see the wet, lumpy stain at the seat of his father’s flannel pajamas. A wave of nausea hit Jason, but he fought it.

His grandfather returned from the back room, preceded by creaking of the walls and floor of the trailer home. The old man looked down at his snoring son and shook his head. Gramps wore a pair of sweats that were much too large for him, cinched together at the waist with a drawstring.

His grandfather plucked the edges of his sweatpants and pulled them out wide. “I feel like MC Hammer in these damn pants.”

Jason gave him a look as if to say, “What?”

“It’s an 80s thing,” Gramps explained. “MC Hammer was one of the first rappers, with a huge hit, Can’t Touch This. Guy wore outrageously oversized pants.”

“What’s in the bag?” Jason asked, looking at the pillowcase in his grandfather’s hand, which made the man look like a robber who had just rifled the back room.

“I took everything he could use to hurt himself, mainly a couple of knives. I think that High Point was the only gun he hadn’t pawned yet.”

“Probably because he couldn’t. They’re worthless enough new; who wants a used one?” Jason looked over the clunky black pistol, then tucked it into his waistband.

“Stay here and keep an eye on him—I’m going to check the kitchen.” Gramps steered clear of his son lying on the floor as he made his way to the kitchen and began throwing knives and an icepick into the pillowcase.

“Do I have to stay here?” Jason called out from the living room, where a hunter in forest camouflage, carrying a compound bow, climbed into a tree stand on TV. Jason felt the side of his face where his father punched him. Lucky for him, his dad was drunk and had been forced to use his left hand, even though he was right-handed. The punch could have been much worse. “The stench is killing me. I almost lost it earlier.”

“Check the living room first to make certain your dad doesn’t have anything stashed under the couch or in or on top of the cabinet.” Gramps decided to toss the pair of cutlery shears into his pillowcase.

Motivated by the awful smell, Jason hurriedly swept the living room, finding a field skinning knife with a gut hook, lying in a sheath in the cabinet. He quickly joined his grandfather in the kitchen. Gramps opened his pillowcase like a trick-or-treater so Jason could throw in the skinning knife. “What’s next?”

“We’ll wait in the car,” Gramps replied, while moving to the front door.

“What about the back room?” Jason asked. “It’s chilly in here, but we could turn up the heat.”

Gramps shook his head no. “It smells back there. No telling when was the last time he washed the sheets, and there are dirty clothes and empty beer cans all over the floor. The place is a mess.”

They stepped down the rickety stairs, which shook as they climbed down, and Jason opened the trunk so they could throw in his dad’s gun and the pillowcase full of knives and other hazards that they had collected.

Once they got inside his car, Jason started up the engine and ran the heater.

“Your dad is lying back there is his own shit. That’s a fitting metaphor for his life.” Gramps looked at the trailer house sadly.

Jason was curious. “Do guys always lose control of their bowels when they get choked out?”

“Not always, but it’s common.” Gramps grimaced as though he had a bad taste in his mouth.

“How does it happen? How does it get so bad?” Jason remembered when his father was a happy man, with Jason and his mom. Jason’s family didn’t have much, but his dad had a job, and they were happy. They were happy, right? Jason thought hard, making sure that he wasn’t deluding himself about his family, and coloring everything rosy in his nostalgia.

“You fail with money, and you fail with women, the two most important areas in a man’s life. When that breaks down, everything goes to hell, and nothing else matters.” Gramps stood up as best as he could in the front seat and reached into the back seat to retrieve his blue and orange Broncos blanket, which he threw over his lap. “It’s not always that dramatic, a suicide by gunshot in a broken-down trailer home. But men kill themselves in lots of ways, slowly. I was there myself, drinking too much, wasn’t taking care of myself, had given up hope of ever finding a woman. I was broke and miserable, but didn’t know what to do.”

Jason was surprised to learn this about his grandfather. “How did you climb out of that?”

“Read every self-help book I could get my hands on. I figured if there was a solution, I was smart enough to find it.” Gramps crossed his arms to stay warm, while watching the trailer home.

“Self-help?” Jason cocked an eyebrow upward.

“Yeah, I know, a lot of it was bullshit.” Gramps chuckled. “Dare to dream, keep chasing rainbows. Wishcraft was one of the books; I read that, too. Eventually I came across the Seduction Community, read books by Style and other pickup artists. Started to learn about stocks, real estate, and then the FIRE movement.”

“Fire?” Jason asked. “Sorry, but I probably wasn’t listening too closely when you told me.”

“Financial Independence, Retire Early.” Gramps turned to his grandson. “Everything I’ve told you is not some crazy idea I just made up, or some book I read or a cult I joined. It’s the result of years of looking for answers, and now that I’ve found them, I’m sixty years old. I’m making up for lost time, but you could be wealthy, retire young, and have a woman or plenty of women to keep you happy.”

“What are we going to do about dad?” Jason couldn’t help looking at the living room window of the trailer home, although he didn’t know what he expected to see. “You know, when I saw the High Point in dad’s hand, that’s when I knew he was willing to end it all. My dad never would have touched a High Point.”

“We’ll wait until morning, and then we’ll all have a talk.”

* * *

“Would you like my cherry?”

Jason had to wonder if Maureen was playing with him, because he thought he saw an impish look in her eyes. “No, I’d like for you to keep your cherry.”

The two of them shared a banana split, complete with nuts, whip cream, hot fudge, and a cherry. They started eating from opposite sides of the silver dish.

Maureen wiped her mouth with her napkin. “I don’t know why we’re eating ice cream on a cold day like today, but I like it.”

“Is my face swollen?” Jason asked, and set down his spoon, so she could see his face clearly.

“Well, you do kind of look like you’re a little Chinese today.” Maureen giggled.

“You brat,” Jason replied, and smiled. “Maybe you could just think of me as being allergic to shrimp, and I’m having a reaction. Or a bee sting.”

“Maybe a swarm of bees,” and Maureen gave him a mischievous smile.

Jason gave her a reproachful look, playfully, and took another bite of the sundae. He was in midbite when he saw Maureen’s mood change.

“Seriously, though,” Maureen half-heartedly stabbed the sundae with her spoon while looking down at the dessert. “If I’m a little wild, when I saw what happened to Laura, how she was lively one day, and comatose the next, after scaring us all with her bizarre behavior, I figured I might as well live it up now. Who knows what could happen tomorrow?”

Jason thought about the terrible childhood Maureen experienced, with an alcoholic, abusive father, a mother suffering a nervous breakdown, and a sister that had manifested the most terrifying symptoms of psychosis before becoming a narcoleptic zombie. It was understandable if a young girl in such a home went off the tracks.

“It wasn’t all my fault, either.” Maureen idly stirred her spoon through the melted ice cream. “I went boy crazy, couldn’t focus on school. Then they held me back two years. Well, that backfired. I was two years older than the other girls, and more…developed. All the boys ignored the other girls and focused on me.”

When Maureen said “developed” he couldn’t help but think of her large breasts, which she must be referring to, but he resisted the urge to look.

“Well, at least now you’re on the right track.” Jason laid his hand on top of Maureen’s hand to assure her. That’s all there was to it, right? Just an assurance.

A bright light flashed, temporarily blinding Jason and Maureen.

Oh shit. He was a “priest” out with a high school student. Had someone just taken a picture of the two of them, with Jason’s hand on Maureen’s? If so, it looked like his career at the shelter was done.