"It's good to be home. Not enough fun in Kitchener. I am positively fun-hungry."
She doesn't look it, she looks wiped up and wrung out, but hell, I'm pretty fun
hungry, too.
"So what's on the Yuletide agenda, Tony?" I ask.
"Thought we'd burn down the neighbours', have a cheery fire." Which is fine by
me -- the neighbours split two weeks before. Morons from Scarborough, thought
that down in Florida people would be warm and friendly. Hey, if they can't be
bothered to watch the tacticals fighting in the tunnels under Disney World, it's
none of my shit.
"Sounds like a plan," I say.
We wait until after three, when everyone in the happy household has struggled
home or out of bed. We're almost twenty when assembled, ranging from little Tiny
Tim to bulldog Pawn-Shop Maggie, all of us unrecalcitrants snagged in the tangle
of Tony's hypertrophied organisational skills.
The kitchen at Tony's is big enough to prepare dinner for forty guests. We
barely fit as we struggle into our parkas and boots. I end up in a pair of
insulated overalls with one leg slit to make room for my knee/soccerball. If
this was Dad and Mum, it'd be like we were gathered for a meeting, waiting for
the Chairman to give us the word. But that's not Tony's style; he waits until
we're approaching ready, then starts moving toward the door, getting out the
harness. Daisy Duke shoulders a kegger of foam and another full of kerosene, and
Grandville gets the fix-bath.
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