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His face was uniquely slappable—a nun would have ached to punch him—while his backside cried out to heaven for a well-placed kick. He slouched, he slumped, he scuffed his way about the house like something soft about to melt.
Everything about him irritated me.
I did my best to be polite during the first evening meal, and restrained my basic instincts, which were to hit him over the head with a shovel.
I was almost as surprised as George, whose lower jaw now resembled a gently moving swing.
By the time we’d finished with the ground floor and arrived back at the staircase, we’d been exposed to a whole range of sinister mists, sounds, and odors, not all of them courtesy of George.
lmao poor georgie
