Mean Spirited

by Nick Roberts

“We shall see that at which dogs howl in the dark and that at which cats prick up their ears after midnight.” —H.P. Lovecraft

He slammed the paper down on the table with one hand and spilled hot coffee from the cup in his left hand. Some of it hit his forearm, but most spilled on the floor, splashing his bare feet. He clenched his jaw and tossed the ceramic mug into the sink. His ear flinched at the cracking sound. The handle probably just broke off, but he didn’t care. The coffee on the floor could fuck off, too. He huffed and puffed his way out of the kitchen.

The brown paper bag full of the mean spirit stared back at him. A sudden anger came over him like he had just come face to face with a friend who had double-crossed him. As if on autopilot, he picked up the bag and heaved it straight toward the heavens. He watched it fall in slow motion until it hit the gravel and shattered.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Mund said. “Six deaths and two home invasions in just under a week, and the only link is a Labrador named Conehead.”

The world experienced a collective existential crisis, and you’re expecting kids to keep chugging along like everything is hunky dory? Go fuck yourself.

“It’s OK to be scared, son,” he said, keeping his focus. “It’s what you do when you’re scared that counts.”