Fallout (Crank 3)

My m

outh is watering already.

He orders the cholesterol-

ridden nightmare, plus a beer.

Kortni dittoes. I go for the Mile-

High Turkey Stack. Hey, it’s got

the requisite (for me, anyway)

poultry, plus some vegetable matter,

on a flaky croissant. Homage

to the day! The beer arrives.

Disappears. A second round

comes before the waitress can

deliver our meal. Dad slams

that one too. By the time

our Mile-High feast hits the table,

he’s barely coherent enough to

order another one. “Dad,” I warn,

“I know we’re celebrating and

everything, but maybe you’d

better slow down a little.”

Before he can argue, Kortni

jumps to his defense. He’s fine.

And anyway, you’re not his mother.

If I were Kyle, I’d simply blow.

Being Summer, I’ll choose

a more covert route to revenge.

In silence, I pick at my sandwich,

watching Dad and Kortni wolf

theirs down and chase them

with even more beer. I wait until