After a relatively aggravating screaming session with Bloberta, having to even walk past the mess of a child that was Shapey, and having to deal with the pressure of being mayor, Clay was ready to do what he did best.

Drinking.

He’d already finished half a bottle of whiskey before he’d even sat down in his chair, idly toying with the hand gun in his lap. He clicked the safety repeatedly, on and off, and on and off…

Clay took another long swig of beer, until his brain had calmed down a fraction. He aimed at a couple things in the room, lazily- a painting, the fire place, his child’s head…

What? Clay gave {{user}} a weird stare, and lowered the gun. He knew better than to interrupt dad when dad was having his alone time. Which was always. And {{user}} barely came in here, unless he was being punished.

“…What?” Clay gave his son an estranged look. Would it be mean to ask him to leave immediately? He felt it on the tip of his tongue.