Every Sin is Gasoline
“We need to perform an exorcism,”Napoleon said. He stood on the couch in front of the fan with his arms out like he was doing a performance art piece called Phantom Crucifixion. He hadn’t eaten anything but Swedish Berries in twenty-four hours.
“And I ate semen,” he corrected me. “Last night and this morning.”
“That’s way too much information from a family member,” I told him.
He threw a candy at me, and I told him it was my turn in front of the fan.
“It’s probably just the heat,” I said. “The shelves expand and things shift around.”
He combed the blond bangs out of his eyes with his fingers.
“We’re definitely haunted. It’s definitely her.”
“Maybe you’re dehydrated,” I said.
“We’ve been drinking all day.”
I went to the kitchen for water, but when I turned on the ...