by John Rachel…
“Danny,” pleaded his mother, “please, eat your dinner, You haven’t touched a thing.”
Danny was six years old.
“Don’t call me Danny! My name is Flava-yo.”
“Please eat something,” said his mother. Then, you can watch TV.”
“I hate your cooking!” said Danny. “Why can’t we have McDonald’s?”
“I made this special for you, sweetheart. Please. Just eat a little bit.”
“This is crap. I wouldn’t give this to the dog.”
His mother didn’t say a word. No one talked about the dog, or what happened to it anymore.
“Why do you talk to her that way?” said his father, hiding behind his plate of spaghetti. “She’s your mother.”
“Because she’s a bitch,” said Danny.
“Did you take your pills today?” said his father.
“Get a life, Pops. I’m outta here.”
Danny got up and headed out of the kitchen, taking with him a box of Frosted Flakes and a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew. He plopped himself down on the floor in front of the TV in the living room.
Tonight should be good, he thought: CSI: Miami, The Walking Dead, followed by a new episode of American Horror Story. His father was still talking, so he turned up the volume.
Danny’s father followed him into the living room.
“Flava-yo, I told you. “Flava-yo!”
“I’m not calling you that,” said his father. “In fact, I’m going to have to insist that you change the channel. You know this program is not appropriate for children.”
Danny did not change the channel.
“Now!” insisted his father.
With this, Danny got up and left the room. A minor victory, thought his father. Not hardly.
When Danny returned, he was holding his father’s handgun. Before his father could even get a word in, however, Danny fired the pistol, hitting him directory in the heart. Kill shot.
Good choice, thought Danny. If TV had taught him anything, it’s that head shots are extremely messy.
Next thing, here comes his mother. The bitch is hysterical, and CSI was just about to start. Danny dropped her like a bad habit.
Just in time. CSI: Miami was just beginning. He set the gun down beside him, a Glock 17, just like on the show. Damn. He forgot the milk. Oh well, Mountain Dew would do just fine.
Danny was six years old. He was a 21st century boy. If TV had taught him anything, it was that he didn’t have the time, or the patience, for all these old fogies, these 20th century relics, anymore.
Ssh. Be quiet. CSI: Miami’s coming on.
About the Author
John Rachel is a bipolar humanist torn between Buddhism and narcissism. He enjoys cooking, mountain climbing, and traveling. Especially traveling. To date, he has been run out of 33 countries, and is currently working on his 34th. Find out more about John and his weirding ways at JDRachel.com.