"Don't care no way, no how I ain't sleepin' with maw maw...she smells like feet and dead possums."
Billy stomped his foot. His arms tightened across his chest. They sure as shit weren't about to make him do it. No sir. His lips narrowed under a barb wire patch of preteen fuzz. Billy glared. He could glare with the best of them. Why, it was goin' on a week since old man Cooter said he could stare down--
Pops slammed a fist to the table. Beer cans, milk cups, and plates of Spam and eggs jumped. Ma shook her head, tapped her ashes into an empty Coors. Pops glared. Billy felt sweat bead above his brows. Lips trembled. It wasn't goin' to end well but damn it he wadn't no kid...he had rights. Let Brutus the bulldog sleep with the gnarled hag.
But Pops glared. His hand tightened on the nearest beer. It crackled, then popped, until white foam spewed from the top. Billy's knees shook. His heels ached. He stared at the smoking Spam. The sweet glaze shimmered like starlight. Steam wafted above like a vapor halo. Drool bubbled on his lip. The smell, Oh lord baby Jesus the smell! The condo ain't never smelled so good as Spam day.
"Fine...maw maw can lay with me, but only for tonight. I'm serious, no more." Billy said.
Ma blew out a puff of smoke in relief. Pops nodded then sucked down the white foam. Minutes passed with only the metallic squeal of forks scraping plates and wet slapping lips smacking together. Billy shoveled the eggs in between bites of Spam. It was worth it even if he hated sleeping with maw maw. She smelled like...
"...And that's another thing. I know tonight's date night an all," he said, fork pointed at Pops. "But come mornin', we bury maw maw."