Malcolm Jones, a bitter and divorced man at forty-two years of age, sat in his worn armchair, nursing a bottle of bourbon and ruminating on how much he hated his son, Darren. His birth, Malcolm realized, and the subsequent nine years spent raising him, was what stressed his marriage to the point of permanent fracture. That woman had been the love of Malcolm's life, and even after she walked out on him, that pathetic, worthless, loser son of his had the nerve to try and comfort him in her absence. It went beyond irony. That demonic little creature had driven his own mother away and feigned compassion. It was blatant betrayal and disrespect far past anyone's tolerance. Something had to be done.
As if on cue, Darren unlocked the front door and walked in.