Vernon God Little by D. B. C. Pierre Page B

called and cancelled that order. I’m sorry – we’ll take a drive to San Antone, I need some more ginseng anyway.’
    â€˜Well, oh my.’
    â€˜But, you ordered almond-on-almond, didn’t you?’ asks George. ‘Look, they’re unloading a new almond Special Edition side-by-side into Nancie’s!’
    â€˜What a day,’ says Leona. Her face goes blank trying to suck back the fourth brag. Too late now, honey chile.
    My eyes trudge over the breakfast bar, past the power bill you can see tucked behind the cookie jar, and into the living room, grasping at any straw of human dignity. Then Brad walks in, wearing a brand-new pair of Timberlands. Fucken ‘Bang!’ goes the door. He hoists his nose and heads straight for the TV. He’ll go sit on the rug and lip-read the beeps on the
Springer
show, I guarantee it.
    My face caves in. This is how I’m being grown up, this is my fucken struggle for learnings and glory. A gumbo of lies, cellulite, and fucken ‘Wuv’.
    I turn to go to my room, but Lally grabs my head. He makes like he’s mussing my hair, but he’s actually holding me back. ‘Little big man – let’s go share some thoughts.’
    â€˜Well sure,’ says Mom, ‘you retire for men’s business – I’ll fix a brew and fill the gals in on a certain somebody’s diet.’
    â€˜What,’ asks Leona, ‘she went back to
Weight Watchers
?’
    â€˜The
Zone
,’ says Mom.
    I’m tuned out by the time Lally nudges me to the dark end of the living room. I get sat at Pam’s end of the sofa, the end closest to the floor. He spreads himself at the high end, and studies my shoes with a frown.
    â€˜Tch, I can’t tell you what you’ve put your mother through. Can you imagine if I hadn’t been around to pick up the pieces?’
    Is he fucken kidding or what? He’s been here seven days, and now he’s like my fucken blood? I just stare at the rug. A fucken yard of it dies.
    â€˜To say we’re challenged, Vern, is to put it very mildly.’
    I climb off the sofa. ‘They’re your damn pieces.’
    â€˜What was that?’ He grabs my arm.
    â€˜Fuck
off
,’ I say.
    He slaps me with the flat of his hand. ‘Fuckin cuss at me.’
    The noise draws Brad over, shuffling on his ass. Lally tightens his grip on my arm.
    â€˜Lalito, how do you want your coffee?’ calls Mom.
    â€˜Hot and sweet, like my woman.’ Lally flashes Brad a smile, and winks. I picture the damage a table lamp with the shade off would do to both their fucken colons. Lally pulls me close and starts to speak softly. ‘I hear talk of a firearm. You hear about another firearm?’
    I just stay quiet.
    He watches me for a moment, then hoists his eyebrows high. ‘Remind me to call Dr Goosens.’ He waits for a reaction, but I stay impassive. He waits a little longer, then settles back into the sofa and starts to scratch out the Dallas Cowboys label my dad sowed into the arm. ‘It’s not too late to shift the paradigm, Vern. In fact, if the paradigm doesn’t shift, the story will die. Nobody wins if the story dies. I’m waiting to hear if I’ve been commissioned for a whole series, in depth. Could cross over into feature rights, web events. We could turn your situation around three hundred and sixty degrees . . .’
    â€˜Learn some fucken math.’
    â€˜Well look!’ Mom walks in with the coffee. ‘He’s only twelve and he has a hundred million dollars! An e-mailionaire, look guys!’
    It’s
America’s Youngest Millionaires
on TV. The ladies drift over like farts.
    â€˜Small fry,’ says Brad. ‘My first billion’s in the bag.’
    â€˜Attaboy, Bradley!’ says George.
    Eyes move to the screen like sinners to fucken church. ‘A
millionaire
before he was
ten
,’ says the reporter, ‘Ricky is now well on