I remember the sound of gravel crunching

I remember the sound of gravel crunching under the wheels as I inched the car up the driveway. I could smell
death. Would anyone find out what I had done? I went inside and washed my face. It had been a crazy night. Suddenly, the lights went out. I turned and
there he was. He was totally nude from the knees up. Varicose veins meant he had to wear those damned socks all the time, but I didn't care, I loved him. He was my
last survivng relative, and no matter that he was a war criminal wanted for
water boarding and torture of children--he was the only blood left. The only thing separating them from his bad deeds and
tell-all book. Damned brats were playing in his yard one time too many. So, he reached into his
pants and began to sling the contents of his depends at anyone within range of flying excrement. Those caught screaming found themselves choking on something unpleasant, then vomit
like a newborn baby. Understandably, Sara wanted him to put on some clean pants and clean up the area. Sara was a neat freak after all.
But only after her routine cold blooded murders. Otherwise she was a titanic slob with the fashion sense of a cab driver. She pissed in bottles and chewed copenhagan, so
went her days. And her nights, as ever, lifted her out of depravity toward that pink ruffled world of six-year-old girls, where monsters are someone else.

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