“You see, I had just made a bet with the voices. They thought I didn’t have the stones, but I told them they owed me five dollars if I could do it. So that’s why I decided to set the building on fire,” you explain to the hand rail as you descend the stairs slowly.
The fire, hot on your heels (ho ho ho), takes exception to the sudden revelation of your whorish reasoning behind the conception of he, your only son. It roars as if under the breeze of a giant bellows and sprays a flight of dancing embers onto your tweed jacket.
“Bradford,” you shout at your infernal child, “you will not talk to me that way, not in front of your father!”
The book of matches in your pocket grunts in agreement. This is no way for a kid to treat his mother.
The empty can of gasoline, however, stays silent.
“Don’t defend him, Shaka!” you half-scream, half-cry at the fuel canister. “You always do this!”
At the base of the stairs, a small piece of ceiling tile falls from the rafters above. Selflessly, the gasoline container throws itself in the path of the plummeting meteor and spares you its fiery wrath.
The spark (ho ho ho) of your love found once more, you and the gas canister hurry home and have wild sex three times while the matchbook masturbates in the corner.