Dad sat there, the blood-covered "World's Greatest Pop" trophy in his shaking hands. He hadn't meant to do it, really, he hadn't. The old man reached for a broken Camel, pulling it unsteadily from the crumpled pack in his shirt, and lit it. Once, just once, they should have given him something better than socks or a tie. Maybe a box of steaks, or some booze. He laid six thousand out for Mother's Day, but knew that in June he'd get shafted again.

"It's the thought that counts," he muttered, looking around at the pile of corpses in his living room. But still, if that was true, how could they misspell the word "Dad" on that handmade card ? Bad enough the lil' bastards couldn't spring for a round of golf, he had to suffer this kind of cheap bullshit ? Couldn't wash the car, or maybe let someone else cut the lawn on Sunday ? How about something other than chicken for dinner ? Would that have been too much to ask ?

He took a last pull on his smoke, then flicked it onto the gas soaked carpet. "Happy Father's Day" he laughed. The flames kissed him with more passion than she had in ten years. Finally, it was over.