The smell of breakfast fills my bedroom.
I go to the kitchen, my head aching from a three-day bender.
Mother is hunched over the stove, working diligently to prepare the meal. My father, a foolhardy schizophrenic, has assumed the role of mad bomber. He is bent over his empty plate, anxiously twisting his crazy handlebar mustache. Quickly, he backs away from the table, crosses the kitchen and goes to the phone.
He has to call in a threat. His voice is vaguely Eastern European.
Mother serves breakfast. The toast is burnt beyond all recognition and the eggs are hopelessly runny.
Agitated, I shove my plate off the table and say, quite loudly, “What is this shit?!”
My father runs back to the front door, reaches into his rucksack and pulls out a black and shiny ball-shaped bomb. He lights the fuse after flicking a match on his teeth and tosses the bomb at me, flashing a dastardly smile all the while. It explodes on the table and knocks me out of my seat. My face is blackened. My hair stands straight up in the air. Smoke rises off my clothes. Mother leans against the sink and cries. Breakfast has been ruined.
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