Don Maloney
The little pile of horse s**t I called my son had been smoking all morning—not even the nice cigars, just that cheap nonsense you pick up for a few bucks at a convenience store or gas station. He smoked it without a care in the world and was dressed like an i***t. He wore one of those obnoxious vintage shirts that all the young people are raving about lately. He paired it with a ridiculously tight pair of trousers. How his nuts could breathe in that garbage, I did not know.
“So, Dad,” he said, puffing out a cloud of smoke that lingered a little too long in my nose, “I’m going to need a bit of money.”
“How much now?” I kept my voice low and measured.
“What?” He turned his head to one side, trying to hear me better.
“I said, how much now?” I neither raised my voice nor lower
