. . .me around his house. Nice house. But, honestly, unless someone is giving you the house, does any guy actually care about a tour? I think it should go, invite me in, show me where booze and food are, show me where I can sit (preferably in front of a television yet out of the way to limit human contact), show me where I can piss, leave.
But, I’m getting one. Carrying a beer so as to assuage the sting. Oh look! A bedroom! Oh look! A home office! Oh look! A couch with what looks like to me two dead kids!
Turns out they weren’t actually dead. They were actually teenagers. And, if we know nothing else about this teenage generation, they sure as hell love to conserve energy. I know they’re playing a video game because I hear the carnage but I’m not seeing, what I would consider, movement.
But, no time to linger! A tours a happening!
Oh look! A hallway! Oh look! A room with a gun case I’m pretty sure I can break into if the need arises.
The tour, mercifully, comes to an end. And not a moment too soon. For I was out of adult beverage.
We pass through the room where the kids are ‘playing’ and, just like medical cadavers, they haven’t moved. At all. Same positions. Same locked stares. Even the father of, I have to assume or hope, at least one of them notices and says,
“What is going on here?”
“Shhhh!” I say. “It’s a test of the emergency inert system. If this had been actual inertia you would have been instructed to call your local mortuary.”
And with that the tour is over and, for my good behavior, I am rewarded a frosty adult beverage.
And a chair.
Away from all others.