A.T. Gunn: Thank you. I really appreciate that.

Guest: Those are some interesting ideas. I'll keep them in mind for the future.

STR2D3PO: I've actually never seen that movie, but it sounds like it'd be fun regardless.

Lori Loud swam slowly from the depths of unconsciousness like a woman rising from the bottom of a dark sea, her brain crackling with life, faint at first, one lighting synapse igniting another until her head was alive with activity, nerve endings registering everything from the warm sunlight bathing her to the dull, throbbing ache above her right eye. She stirred slowly and drew a deep breath, her forehead crinkling at the foul taste in her mouth, as though a baby skunk had used it for a potty chair. One lid fluttered open, and then squeezed closed at the stinging barrage of golden light spilling through the window. Ummm. No. She tried to roll to her other side, but a wave of lightheadedness crashed over her, and her stomach threatened to heave. Nevermind.

Nuzzling deeper into her pillow, she sought the embrace of sleep once more, but it pulled away, leaving her alone with her rapidly thawing mind. She remembered the party, the drinking, the...she shied away like a timid little girl from something monstrous. It remained, however, heavy and impacted like shit in a colon. If she didn't brush the dirt away from its edges, it would stay half-buried just a while longer - long enough for her to fully wake up and come to terms with the knowledge of what she did last night.

A hot, furnace-blast breeze swept through the desert and uncovered a little more. Her heart clutched and she squeezed her eyes closed against the blinding light of realization: It bathed her lids, but she could not see it directly - if she could, she would go insane and die, her face melting and her hair turning snowy white, just like -

A dagger blade of horror plunged into her stomach and twisted, cutting the thought off before it could fully form. She swallowed against a sandpaper throat and hugged her pillow tighter, as if for comfort, but it gave her none, and nothing ever would again no matter how long she lived or how hard she looked.

It was just a dream, she told herself, it didn't really happen.

Only she knew that it wasn't and that it had, knew it as well as she knew the layout of the house, right down to all the little nooks, alcoves, and crannies. Visions flashed across her mind like a slideshow in hell: Lincoln's face hovering inches above hers, his eyes narrowed and his teeth clenched; the side of his neck as she lapped it with her tongue and grazed it with her teeth; a look of mind-bending horror on his face as he turned away from her and fled.

Her heart burst like an egg and a million tiny baby spiders of filled her body; a strangled moan escaped her throat and blood crashed against her temples in throbbing waves, making her headache worse and worse until it burned like hot coals in the center of her skull.

She hurt Lincoln.

Oh, God, she molested him.

Tears welled in her eyes and she was powerless to fight them back; she buried her face in the pillow and wept bitterly, her shoulders shaking and her back hitching. The look in his eyes - what she took to be hurt and betrayal - made her cry even harder. She tried to recall details, but her memory was disjointed, images looming forward from the fog like strange and threatening shapes. Her hugging Lincoln from behind at the party, his muscles tensing in alarm; her shoving her tongue into his mouth and the muffled sounds he made - probably him begging her to stop; her calling him big brother and telling him how she'd always wanted an older sibling (which she had). Everything else was a blur. She could have done any number of terrible things to him, could have ignored his tears and broken Lori, please, stops, could have even bitten him, scratched him, drawn blood as she took what her intoxicated body wanted.

She hoped not. It was already bad enough - his big sister, in whom he trusted, raped him, possibly traumatized him - adding physical wounds made it so, so much worse.

In her many, many years as an older sister, she'd taken advantage of her siblings in many ways, but never like this - you can come back from making your little sister do your laundry in exchange for a ride, but you can't come back from running your brother down like a gazelle and violating him as he cried for you to stop.

He's gonna hate me, she thought, and she sobbed out loud. She loved him...she didn't wear it on her sleeve, but she loved him and everything about him - how kind and considerate he was, how responsible and mature, how he'd give you the shirt off his back. He meant so much to her, and she fucked it all up - no matter how much she plead for his forgiveness, and no matter how many times he gave it to her, what she did would hang always between them like a black cloud.

She was still crying when the door opened and someone came in; her body locked up and cold dread dropped into her stomach like a chunk of ice. He must have told on her and now her sisters were here to confront her...maybe even to beat her to within an inch of her life.

And she would deserve it.

Heavy footsteps approached the bed and stopped; Lori could feel eyes boring into her, and her skin began to crawl. For a moment she was frozen in indecision - should she turn and face the music or play possum and avoid it for a little longer?

She swallowed hard and turned to look over her shoulder, a hammerhead of fear striking her heart when she found Lynn and Luna both glaring at her, Luna's arms crossed over her scrawny chest and Lynn's hands on her hips, her teeth bared in a snarl that reminded Lori of a vicious dog seconds before lunging at a hapless throat. Darting her tearful eyes from one sister to the other, Lori steeled her resolve. She did something terrible last night, and she would own up to it.

"We need to have a talk," Luna said, her voice tight.

Before Lori could even open her mouth, Lynn jumped in. "What you did last night was really fucked up."

Lori's stomach twinged and she lowered her gaze. "I know," she mumbled and wiped her eyes with the heel of her palm. "I didn't mean to."

"You practically raped Lincoln," Lynn accused, and Lori's heart shattered. Practically? I did!

Luna shook her head in disgust. "I understand getting shitfaced and acting dumb, but grinding up on your own brother like that...man, that's way outta line. What was going through your head?"

She opened her mouth, but couldn't bring herself to say out loud. That he was cute...and kind...and just like Bobby...and that I wanted him to be my big brother.

That last one surprised her but at the same time didn't. As the oldest in the family, the burden of helping raise her siblings, of looking out for them and helping them, had always fallen to her. Her brother and sisters looked up to her, leaned on her, went to her when they needed help or advice. Who did she have to turn to? No one. Mom and Dad, maybe, but there are things you don't go to your parents with, things that are too embarrassing or awkward, things they can't, or won't, help you with. Growing up, she wished for a big sister of her own, someone she could lean on, someone to listen to her and guide her. She never really wanted an older brother per se, but the thought of one snuggling her in his big, strong arms, the comforting heat of his body melting away all the fears, worries, and insecurities that she was forced to hide because her younger siblings looked up to her *was* kind of nice.

"I-I don't know," she said, still not able to look Lynn or Luna in the eyes. "I just...I was so drunk. I didn't mean to hurt him." Her voice broke on the last word and she started to cry again. "I didn't mean to hurt my little brother." She rolled onto her side facing them and pressed one hand to her eyes; grief washed through her and she brought her knees to her chest. Her anguish was made worse by the stark realization that while she didn't mean to do what she did, she meant what she said - he was cute, he did remind her of Bobby, and while he wasn't an older brother, he was kind of like one. She flashed back to the night before, to a snippet of sensation lingering in her body like a scream - Lincoln's dick stimulating her inner walls - and a shiver shot down her spine like a ball of electricity.

She regretted hurting him.

But she did not regret the way she felt...and the way he made her feel.

"I'm a wreck," she moaned, "a pervert, disgusting fucking wreck."

Lynn and Luna exchanged a worried glance, and their features both softened. Lynn regarded her oldest sister with a frown, then perched on the edge of the bed and laid a calming hand on her shoulder. "It's fine, Lincoln's okay, just...probably weirded out. I mean, he looked kind of upset after what you did at the party but he fronted like he wasn't."

What about what I did after, she tried to say, but the words came out in a choked sob instead.

Luna stared at Lori for a second, her inner conflict clear on her face: She wanted to be pissed, but she didn't want Lori hating herself or anything. How she acted was kind of a big deal but not something she deserved to hate herself over.

Finally, she sighed and knelt beside the bed, her hand resting next to Lynn's. "Look, you just did something stupid, okay? It's not the end of the world, but it's also not cool." She wanted to add more, to point out that Lincoln was not only her brother but her little brother, a kid, and that when Mom and Dad aren't home, Lori was in charge, making her the de facto caregiver. How she acted toward him was gross in general, but really screwed up when you factor in the relationship dynamic. She imagined how she'd feel if Dad did something like that to her, and frankly, she thought it'd be the scariest thing ever. Lori had always been like a third parent to them, and parents have a special responsibility to their children. The way she acted with Lincoln last night was the most profound type of treachery a parent, scoutmaster, youth pastor, or older sister can ever display.

She didn't, though; Lori was in enough pain as it was...because she already knew. "Lincoln's okay," she said, "but you need to go talk to him."

At that, Lori's stomach dropped. "I-I can't," she said; neither of her sisters saw, but her eyes widened with fright as she spoke. She couldn't face him, not now, and probably not ever; if she tried and he shied away like a kicked dog, she'd start crying and never stop. He was such a beautiful boy...and she scarred him for life!

"Well, you have to," Luna said. "That's not something you just let go and sweep under the rug."

No, it wasn't, but what was the alternative? Stare it in the face? Look deep into the heart of your own darkness and see your reflection, twisted and grotesque? Look into his eyes and see the pain she caused him, the emotional turmoil?

She couldn't. She just couldn't.

"She's right," Lynn said, "you gotta talk to him and make sure he knows everything's okay."

It wasn't, though! Nothing was okay! He was either going to be a scared, shaking wreck or he was going to hate her! She was sure that there was no in-between.

Suddenly she wanted to be alone, away from everyone, away, even, from herself. "O-Okay," she said just so they'd leave, "I-I'll talk to him."

Luna rubbed her shoulder. "Good."

No.

It was not good.

There are many things in this world that cloud one's judgement. Alcohol, for example, or money, the pursuit of power, hunger...and arousal. In the dictionary, the definition of the word aroused is: To evoke or awaken a feeling, emotion, or response. John was aroused to anger by the results of the 2016 presidential election; Marge's suspicion was aroused by the lipstick on her husband's collar; Lincoln was aroused and took advantage of his older sister in a time of weakness.

In short, there are different forms of arousal, and all of them have the potential to obscure your decision-making abilities...none more so, Lincoln imagined, than sexual arousal. When he was turned on, he found it hard to think clearly - the insistent fire in his loins, if left unchecked long enough, would consume everything in its path until extinguished. When he was turned on, all of his focus went to either stoking that fire or putting it out, and the longer it burned, the brighter it became. He assumed everyone was the same, but maybe they weren't, who knows? The point was this: He allowed the fire to engulf him...and then raped his older sister.

Sitting up in bed as thin tendrils of morning light crept into the room, his knees drawn to his chest, Lincoln stared blankly at the door, his mind awash in a tide of dark thoughts and his chest aching with sharp, cutting emotions: Fear, self-loathing, disgust, bitter regret, and shame - shame for what he did to Lori and shame because if he thought too much about it, he'd get hard.

Presently, as the house began to stir with activity, Lincoln blotted his leaking eyes with the heel of his palm and took a deep, labored breath. Sooner or later, he thought, he'd have to go out there, have to face Lori. In a way he hoped she didn't remember what happened the previous night, but in a way he did; the enormity of his burden was too great to carry and to hide. If she didn't remember, he'd break down and tell her.

She wanted it, though, a voice spoke from the back of his head.

That doesn't matter. She was drunk. She didn't know which way was up and which was down.

So were you...your judgement was just as screwy as hers.

Well...you could technically say that was true, but at the same time, Lori's brain was stewing in mind-altering toxins and his was not. He may not have been thinking clearly, but he was with it enough that he should have known better. His judgement was clouded, but he could see through the fog well enough to navigate...he simply chose not to. He went into Lori's room last night knowing damn well what could possibly happen...wanting it to happen...he sought it out and took it not by force but by deceit.

Or something.

He didn't fucking know.

Blinking back a fresh crop of tears, he thought back to the look of rapture on Lori's face as he filled her, her eyes closed and her skin glowing in the midst of her climax - he'd never seen a woman more beautiful, and his heart ached at the memory. He longed to reach out and touch her, to brush his thumb over her pink lips and kiss the tip of her nose; he wanted to hold her hand the way he did when they were having sex, to feel the comforting sensation of her fingers threaded through his, to feel her squeezing and needing him.

He loved her as a sister and he was so fucking ashamed of himself he could crawl into a hole and die. After their time together, though...he thought that maybe...maybe he felt something else, something a boy shouldn't feel for a girl who shares his parents. Every time he called up a vision of her face, his stomach felt like it was being raked by a thousand tiny claws, and his heartbeat staggered like a wino missing a step. He'd only ever felt that way about two girls in his life: Cristina and Ronnie Anne. Girls he liked...girls he wanted to kiss...girls he thought about when he masturbated late at night.

And that made him feel ten times worse about what he did. If you love a girl, as a girl or as family, you don't swoop in when she's loopy and out of her head and stick your dick in her. If you love her, you help her to bed, hold her hand, then, when she's asleep, you set a glass of water and a couple aspirin on the nightstand for when she wakes with that inevitable hangover. Which route did he take? It sure as hell wasn't the latter.

What a scumbag. He didn't make a habit of being down on himself, but when the going gets tough you find out what you're really made of, and last night he discovered that he was made of slime. And dirt. And predatory instincts.

Sigh.

Okay. Lincoln Loud is a piece of shit confirmed. Now what?

His stomach gurgled.

The logical first step, as he saw it, was to talk to Lori; see if she remembered or not, and go from there.

He tried to imagine how that would go, and in every scenario, she was either so angry she hit him or so upset she wept into her hands. I can't believe you would do that to me, Lincoln. Each vision was like sandpaper grating his soul, and he came close to tears at the thought of her turning her back on him in disgust, cold silence and disdain between them where there had once been warmth and love. He'd deserve it, though; he'd also deserve it if she slapped him across his face. He'd even deserve it if she told Mom and Dad and he wound up in therapy or something.

But she liked it! She was drunk but that doesn't mean she didn't want it!

Well, sure, but again, she wasn't in her right mind. Her wanting it, though, was kind of beside the point: She was at her weakest, and he, knowing this, went into her bedroom to exploit that.

You were pretty weak too.

Lincoln sighed.

For a long time, he sat where he was, listening to the muffled sounds of the house waking and beginning its day. The light spilling through the window grew brighter, stronger, and by the time it was 8:30 per the clock on the nightstand, he was filled with restless energy. He needed to talk Lori, but, God, he didn't want to - he'd rather shove nine inch nails through each one of his eyelids than face her. He made a huge mistake, though, and he had to own up to it.

He steeled himself, then got up and went to the door, pausing with his knob on the handle and taking a deep breath.

The hall stood empty, the bathroom door slightly ajar and the light off. He looked left and right as if for danger, then slipped out like an anxious field mouse emerging from its burrow. This was his home and had been his entire life, he knew it and was comfortable here, but now he felt exposed and vulnerable, and as he made his way toward the end of the hall, he had to resist the urge to scurry. At Lori's door, his stomach tossing and turning, he came to a shuffling stop and looked up at it as though something terrible lurked beyond. To be fair, it did.

His guilt.

You made this mess, asshole, now you have to clean it up.

He knew. He knew all too well.

Balling his hand, he took a deep breath and knocked. When she opened the door, he'd smile, say Hey, Lori, can we talk? and, if she didn't punch him in the face of break down crying over his betrayal of her trust, they could...well...discuss what happened.

He waited a minute, then knocked again. When she didn't answer, he started to turn the knob, but hesitated, visions of Lori clawing his face off the moment he poked it in dancing wickedly through his head. He doubted that would happen, though: She was probably still passed out - maybe he should leave her alone.

And dwell a little longer.

Let it eat him alive as it had been all night.

Turning the knob, he eased the door open and tentatively pressed his face to the crack.

Her bed was empty and neatly made, the pillow resting atop the blanket.

Letting out a pent up breath he didn't know he was holding, Lincoln drew back and shut the door. She was up...and about...either blissfully unaware of what transpired the night before, or biding her time before coming to him.

Laughter drifted up the stairs, and something about how normal it was struck him as endlessly grotesque.

He should hurry back to his burrow and stay there until he was forced to acknowledge what he'd done. Instead, he forced himself down the stairs, his feet heavy as blocks of concrete. He paused at the bottom, shoulders slumped and head hung; his sisters' voices found his ears from the dining room, typical Saturday morning chatter. He could see them sitting around the table with bowls of cereal in front of them, joking and roasting one another like they did every morning. Except Lori. She sat at the head with her arms crossed protectively over her chest and her gaze downcast.

Because of him.

Some brother, huh?

Forcing himself on, he went into the dining room, his face starting to burn and his heartbeat increasing until it filled his head like the pounding of drums...drums signalling the approach of something evil. He stole a glance at the table...saw Lynn and Luna, Luan, Lucy, and Leni.

He did not see Lori.

Nor did he notice that the chatter died as soon as he walked into the room; he caught movement from the corner of his eye and glanced over to find all of his sisters staring at him. Maybe he was just seeing them through a prism of guilt, but he thought he saw accusation in their eyes. He turned quickly away and toward the kitchen, only to freeze when he came face-to-face with Lori - she was coming out with a plate in her hands, and when she saw him, she, too, froze, her eyes widening and a look of horror crossing her face.

For a moment they simply gaped at each other, their sisters looking from one to the other and back again, then Lori whipped her head away and went over to the table. "H-Hey, Linc," she said and sat the plate in front of Lucy; he noted that she pointedly did not look at him.

She knew.

She remembered what happened.

He didn't know whether that was a good thing or not. At least he didn't have to explain. Hey, sis, last night when you were drunk off your gourd, I kind of raped you. On the other hand, she was already mad at him - he could feel it.

"H-Hey," he said and glanced at his feet.

"I made pancakes," she said and turned back to the kitchen in a swish of blonde hair. Her voice was flat and not entirely steady. "I'll fix you a plate."

He nodded. "Thanks."

She disappeared into the kitchen, and despite all of the guilt in his chest, the disgust, self-loathing, shame, remorse, and everything else...he looked at her butt.

Across the table, Lynn spoke and he started. "You okay, Linc?" Her voice was soft and filled with concern. He glanced at her, then away, sure that if his eyes lingered, she would see the rapist within.

"I'm fine," he said and sat in the empty chair next to Lucy. He tried to think of something to add, something to really sell the lie, but nothing came. Lynn and Luna both stared at him with worried expressions while Leni happily ate her pancakes, her eyes crossed in concentration.

Beside him, Lucy turned and regarded him with a total lack of emotion. "You don't look fine," she said, "you're paler than I am."

Luna and Lynn's gazes were heavy, stifling, and he squirmed a little. "I'm joking," Lucy said.

"Yeah, no one's paler than her," Lynn added with a contrived grin, "she's so white, she thinks milk is spicy."

Next to her, Luna grinned, but it did not touch her eyes - they were going through the motions, trying to lighten the mood. Lori must not have told them. As far as they knew, he was unnerved over her antics at the party. "She has a face like a piece of loose leaf paper."

Lori came in, bowed her head, and sat a plate in front of Lincoln. "Here," she said.

"Thanks," he said to the pancakes.

For the briefest of moments, she lingered as though she wanted to say something, then turned and hurried back into the kitchen. Lincoln fought the urge to look after her and looked at the plate instead - light, fluffy flapjacks drizzled with maple syrup and topped with butter. He normally went nuts for these things, but today the very smell turned his stomach. It'd look bad if he didn't eat, though; Lynn and Luna were already worried, and him picking at his food would only make things worse.

Picking up his fork, he carved a piece off and shoved it into his mouth. It tasted bland, like cardboard.

Across the table, Lynn took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. "You wanna ride bikes later, Linc?" she asked. "I was thinking of going to the park."

"Maybe," he said. His eyes darted to the kitchen threshold when the sink cut on. Was she going to hide in there the whole time, making excuses and finding busy work to keep from having to look at him? He'd rather she yell, slap him, and make a scene in front of everyone than cower in fear...like he was a monster...like he was going to hurt her.

Again.

Tears welled in his eyes and blinked them away.

"Or you can help me with this song I'm trying to write," Luna offered. "I'd ask Lucy, but she'd turn it into a Lovecraft thing or something." She chuckled nervously.

"Probably," Lucy agreed.

Lincoln hacked off another piece of pancake and forced it past his lips, his ears acutely tuned to pick up any sounds from the kitchen (soft weeping, perhaps?). He heard only running water and the hissing scrape of steel wool against metal as Lori presumably scrubbed a pan. "Maybe," he said. He wasn't going to do anything until after he talked to Lori, and whatever he wound up doing would probably involve tears and feeling like a piece of shit, not bikes or song lyrics.

"We can hit up the arcade," Lynn said casually, as though the two of them going to the arcade was a normal Saturday afternoon occurrence. It was not; Lynn thought video games were dumb and the people who played them were basement dwelling geeks who jacked off to Princess Leia or something. If she was offering to go to the arcade with him, she must be really worried about him. Poor Linc, Lori perved him and now he's acting skittish. Little did she know, he perved Lori so much harder it was sickening.

"I'm probably gonna go hang with Clyde," he lied, fighting to keep his voice even. "I have to call him, though."

Lynn nodded, and he thought she was going to keep pressing, but thankfully she backed off. When he was done with breakfast fifteen minutes later, Leni and Lucy drifted off, but Lynn and Luna remained, even though they'd both been done since shortly after he sat down.

Staying for moral support, maybe, or as bodyguards?

"I'll take that in the kitchen for you," Lynn said; before he could protest, she reached over the table and grabbed his plate. I'll take it in there so you don't have to be around Lori.

His stomach clenched and he felt like he was going to be sick. "Thanks," he said and got up, fleeing before either she or Luna could stop him. In his room, he shut the door and dropped onto the edge of his bed. He hung his head, sighed, and raked a hand through his hair. He couldn't blame Lori for staying in the kitchen - he just wished she came in and sat down. He really wanted to see her and make sure she was okay.

Yeah, because you were so concerned with how she was last night.

He rubbed firm circles into his temples and struggled to clear his mind, but it didn't work: Lori haunted it like a phantom, her smile, her smell, the sounds she made as he thrusted into her, the look in her eyes, the taste of her kisses…

As soon as he could, he decided, he would going to corner her and apologize. She might not want anything to do with him after this, and he could understand that, but he needed to tell her how sorry he was...and maybe even how he felt. I love you, Lori - I don't know if I did before I sexually assaulted you, but I sure do now.

He barked harsh, humorless laughter and shook his head. Good one, Linc. You're a smooth guy, you know that? It's almost like -

Someone knocked on the door.

There's a story called The Monkey's Paw about a cursed monkey's paw that grants its owner three wishes but corrupts them somehow. In it, a guy wishes for a bunch of money and gets it in the form of a pay off when his adult son is killed at work. His wife uses it to wish him back alive a few weeks later, and he returns in the dead of night, the eerie sound of of his knocking reverberating through the house like a ghostly moan. Though there was no mangled, undead body on the other side of his door, Lincoln felt the same thing the father in that story felt when he heard it: Soul freezing horror. His lungs withered and his heart hammered so hard against his ribs he was certain one would crack.

He knew, knew with absolute certainty,, that it was Lori come to confront him.

"Y-Yeah?" he called.

The knob shook, rattled, and rolled, then the door came open slowly like the entrance to a crypt being impossibly opened from the inside, rusty hinges creaking like the pained cry of a ghost in the night. Fingers curled around the edge, French tipped, then a face framed by blonde hair appeared.

Lori.

Her blue shadowed eyes flickered to him then away, a look of shame or disgust or both crossing her features and her pearl earrings swaying mournfully from side to side. "We need to talk," she said.