I throw up a middle finger at the group of idiots who have gathered to watch me work and then get back to it. I’m no Picasso, but I step back from my masterpiece when I’m done feeling rather proud of myself. The Edmondson kids aren’t the only ones who like to draw dicks on things, and the one I’ve drawn on the photo of my father is a veiny, hairy monster, aimed right at the dipshit’s mouth. “There we go.” I toss the Sharpie over my shoulder, grinning. “Take that, fucker.”
