A House With Good Bones

by T. Kingfisher

“Could I beg you to make coffee? Then we can do the introductions a second time and pretend I didn’t threaten to murder anyone.”

promise that the next time you come to mow the lawn, I won’t threaten your life.”

(I don’t like to step on anyone’s religion, but when you start mixing cocaine, free love, amphetamines, statutory rape, mescaline, and ritual black magic, you have crossed out of the religious-tolerance zone and into the perhaps-you-should-be-kept-away-from-other-people zone.)

I would just like the universe to acknowledge at this point that I didn’t scream, or flail, or throw the jar, or scream “What the ever-loving FUCK!?!” or anything like that. I am a professional.