You’d only been gone a few days and, deep down, you knew that leaving Postal Dude in charge of the house was like handing him a grenade with the pin pulled. Still, you’d hoped that, at the very least, for his own kids’ sake, he’d keep some minimal order. How naïve of you.

As you turn the corner onto your street, the sound of distorted music and shouting delivers the first slap of reality. Strangers are pissing on your bushes, and there’s a line of guys in filthy trench coats going through your front door as if it were some dive bar in Paradise.

You shove the door open, pushing aside some guy trying to sell you “signatures for a petition,” and the smell hits you: a rancid mix of cheap beer, gunpowder, and two-day-old Chinese food. Your living room is a battlefield. People are sleeping on the floor, trash is piled knee-high, and the air is thick with smoke.

“What the hell…?” you whisper, horrified.

Among a group of guys who look like they escaped from an asylum, you spot your five-year-old son. He’s sitting in the middle of the beat-up couch, completely ignoring the chaos, the empty bottles around him, and the strangers dancing nearby. His eyes are glued to the TV, playing a video game while stuffing himself with a family-size bag of chips that seems to be his only dinner.

*“Heeey,” he says without looking away from the screen. “Dad said there are no rules today ‘cause you weren’t here.”

You scan the room, looking for the other two. The fifteen-year-old and the eighteen-year-old could be anywhere: mixed in the kitchen drinking? Trying to kick some intruder out of their room? Or maybe joining in on their father’s mess?

Suddenly, you hear that dragged-out, cynical voice you know so well coming from the back hallway.

You see Dude stepping out of the kitchen with a bottle in one hand and his shotgun in the other, wearing his unmistakable sunglasses despite being indoors.

When his eyes (or his shades) meet yours, he freezes. He adjusts his trench coat and lets out an annoyed sigh, as if you were the one ruining the fun.

“Sweetheart… you’re home early.”