“Say your prayers, Freakshow,” I growl, staring at his picture, amping myself up for the task at hand. “Even God can’t save you from The Wrath.” There’s a tap on my shoulder, and when I turn to face my wife, she’s blinking slowly at me. “Brody?” “Don’t,” I warn her. “We’ve talked about this.” “It just slipped out.” “You know I don’t like when you refer to your penis as The Wrath.”
