(AN) If Mr. Toran's vehicle didn't tip you off, the next two chapters of this fic will contain multiple instances of bigotry on his part. If you are in any way shape or form a member of the human race, you are bound to be offended in one form or another and I deeply and profusely apologize in advance. Hopefully, we can all realize that while bigotry is a very real (and very wrong) problem in this world, the instances contained in this work are not a reflection of who I am as a person and written more as a commentary of Mr. Toran.

That said, on with the show…

HumanDictionary

One would think that having the light turned on would help matters. Ironically enough, the newfound luminosity only highlighted the off and clammy state that was Wolfgang's house.

Helga and Phoebe walked past the threshold and drank in the eeriness of the front room. It was clean…too clean, the kind of clean of an individual with something to hide. The floor and throw rug had been purged of crumbs and dust while the cream-colored walls glistened like teeth in an awkward grin. Adding to the overall sense of apprehension was the choice in furniture. Where your average homeowner will pick sets with care and thought, Wolfgang's dad (or whoever designed the place) appeared to have grabbed fixtures like a contestant on some timed race through a thrift shop; the solidly avocado colored velour couch clashed horribly with the charcoal floral print accent chairs and the navy-blue rug beneath a minimalist wood table. Another more ornate wood table with a kitschy lamp sat next to one of the accent chairs, standing sentry next to a pile of catalogues selling hunting equipment.

"Dad…" Wolfgang began again weakly. "I'm…"

The young man holds his finger up to the girls and sticks his ear out (oblivious to the fact that they had been long since silenced by the odd feeling of his house). Sure enough, a muffled noise comes from the back.

"Figures. The War Room."

"'The War Room?'" Phoebe inquired.

"Would this war room happen to have a place where we can set these down?" Helga groaned.

"Dah! Sorry." Wolfgang said taking the trays from his guests. "I'll put these in the kitchen…make yourselves at…home, I guess. There's water, or milk and some soda in the fridge if you're thirsty."

The Toran lad watches as his guests uneasily seat themselves in his den before resuming his trek through what remained of the uncannily hygienic house. After throwing some plates and utensils on the kitchen table and making room for this new batch of leftovers amidst the copious array of beer, soda and other partially consumed foodstuffs, Wolfgang emits a disgusted sigh before throwing open the door and finding himself greeted to the booming sound of the television as he makes his way down the cellar steps.

"…Tonight, a Scott Hannigan exclusive, the government is secretly putting dog hormones in your water supply to make a more obedient country…"

Apart from whatever light originated off the television set, the Toran patriarch's subterranean lair was a literal descent into darkness. But even with what little illumination had been afforded to him, Wolfgang knew his way around this caliginous and petrifying parody of a VFW hall with ease; a small bar had been set up in the far-left corner, war paraphernalia ranging from badges and medals to assault weapon replicas adorned the walls. Here and there taxidermy deer heads dotted the walls, as did a great deal of right-wing/USMC related kitsch. But the crown jewel in this collection was a tattered, full-sized South Vietnamese flag which had been enshrined and mounted on the wall behind the bar. Encompassing the banner were 49 sets of panties each of which had an engraved plate with the name of a state beneath it.

Upon a velour swivel recliner that looked like it had been stolen out of a mid-90's RV sat the old man himself; practically transfixed by the program as the anemic radiance emitting from his tv set blanketed his body and gave his skin a waxy complexion. Aside from the affirmative grunt, he said very little (if anything at all) when it came to any acknowledgement of the other person in the room.

Loath as Wolfgang was to draw attention to himself in this manner, he could see atop the bar the master remote lying a stone's throw away from the overhead light. On the one hand, Hannigan was high sabbath in this household as far as dear old dad was concerned, but on the other hand, hunger only did to Mr. Toran's already volatile temper what kerosene did to forest fires. With a deep breath and a whisper to himself 'it's like pulling off a bandage', the image of the neurotic newscaster irises out before the screen went to black.

"WHA…who…ho, huh…"

"Dad. I'm. Home." The boy says dryly.

"Wolfgang! Oh, good. Back from your old stompin' grounds so soon?"

"It's almost seven thirty at night."

"Yeah, yeah, hey, tell me at least you bought back dinner. It is Thanksgiving and all."

"Well, I did manage to swipe some trays from those do-gooders feeding the bums." Wolfgang said trying to muster up some of the remorseless bravado that came so naturally to him once upon a time.

"HA! Bleeding hearts didn't know what hit 'em eh?" He cackled while rising himself and taking a deep breath. "Oh, I can see it now; turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, corn, and especially that pumpkin pie-"

"Yeah, about that…" Wolfgang whispered.

(Meanwhile, upstairs in the Living Room)

"Someone's a little uneasy."

Helga shot a dirty glance at her friend's direction, but to no avail. Try as she could to deny it with the look in her eye, Phoebe could read her like an open book and could tell when her best friend's fortitude rested on pillars of salt and sand. Nonetheless, Helga still felt the need to keep her proverbial poker face even as her tone betrayed her.

"Who?…me?…Please Pheebs…it's…it's like I told the baboon as we boarded; my dad has spewed this crap at one point or another…I mean…just this morning you couldn't get him to shut up about what a bunch of eunuchs our state football team is and…well…that said…(she cocks her head in the direction of the front door)… maybe if we're juuuuuust quiet enough…"

With all the care and focus of heart surgeons, the two girls rise from their chairs and tiptoe across the room. Silence strangles the air as the two of them see their ticket out of their host's house of horrors get closer and closer. Helga takes the deepest breath imaginable as her fingertips gently start to caress the brass doorknob.

"NO! PUMPKIN! PIE?!"

Phoebe and Helga rush back to their seats in the blink of an eye, both shocked and surprised that the house didn't fall down on them from the sheer volume of those three words. Seconds upon returning to their positions, the two girls see their host barrel through the living room and duck behind the couch. In another world, the two sixth graders would have relished the sight of their formidable and remorseless tormentor cowering for his life in the throes of unfiltered pants-pissing fear. But whatever schadenfreude the scene before them seemed to inspire found itself nuked as they finally got the answer to their question:

What possible soul-full-of-gunk hell spawn could hold partial credit for siring a figure so horrifying as Wolfgang Toran?