When Cleaning Goes Wrong

And this . . . is where I dropped my soup!He came at me before I was even aware he was in the room.  Fists clenched and down to his sides, as if he was a gunslinger about to go to work.  His brows were furrowed down over his narrowed eyes.  He breathed, like a bull, through clenched teeth.
His first words streamed out in a vicious path so fast that I couldn’t make sense of them.
“What’s that, buddy?”
“YOU THINK MY ART IS TRASH!?”  My five-year-old made it an accusation, not a...