1:56 P.M.

Randy heard the door slam and his mother muttering as she made her way into the kitchen for some booze. What a fucking slob. She wondered why his father was having an affair with that Janet woman, but it was quite obvious to him. She was a drunken, angry loser: angry about her fading looks, her unfashionable wardrobe, her dead-end job selling broken-down shacks to miserable immigrant families, and she tended to take it out on her family, especially when she was on the sauce, which she almost always was.

He shook his head and returned his attention to the computer screen, where several chat boxes were displayed. He could've kicked himself for not stumbling into Calistan M4M chat sooner. He had needs, and desires, he typed to the supposed 18 year-old with washboard abs and a great head of hair. Randy knew exactly who it was, it was that same guy with the beer-belly and gigantic mole on his neck who'd slipped him that note in a diner last week. He knew because he had the very peculiar habit of spelling his "the's" without the E. Idiot.

I know who you are, Randy typed, and the window closed immediately. He laughed and turned to one of the other windows. He was just getting himself excited when he heard his mother calling him from the kitchen.

"Oh, Jesus Christ!" he spat, pulling up his pants and waiting for his erection to quit. She had probably fallen in the cupboard again, or broken a bottle of her beloved fire water. It was only two o'clock and already she was wasted. At least his father waited until after five, when he got home from his REAL job. He didn't sell former crackhouses to Ethiopians, no sir. He was an editor at the Calistan Free Press, the city's oldest and most respected newspaper. He'd gotten his job as a result of years of backbreaking hard work, not by giving a BJ to the head of the department like a certain drunken witch he decided should remain nameless. He made his way down the stairs slowly, peeking around the corner into the kitchen. She was standing at the stove, stirring a pot and smiling at him.

"Randy! I thought I heard you come down. Dinner's almost ready, would you set the table please?"

"Dinner? It's only two o'clock. Dad won't be home for another three hours."

"Your father isn't coming home tonight, honey. He says he's going on a business trip."

"I don't blame him, if this is what he has to come home to. Well, I suppose if it's early enough to get hammered it's early enough for one of your abortions masquerading as a meal."

She stared at him, mouth agape as she continued stirring her dreadful concoction. That's right, he thought, pulling the plates from the cabinet, stare. I'm young, fashionable, and desirable. You're nothing but a wasted zero, who'll most likely be forced into prostitution when Dad finally comes to his senses and divorces your ass.

He grinned at her, and she gave him a faltering half-smile in return.