I turned all the way around in the chair so that I was sitting backward on my knees. In addition, he should have been the one thanking God that looks don’t kill because I shot him my meanest look. It had zero effect on him. He simply rolled his eyes back into his skull, manipulated the throbbing vain in his forehead, and walked in to the kitchen.

With his back to me, I made my right hand into the shape of a gun and shot him in the back of the head. I must have missed because my finger bullet didn’t seem to have any effect on him. I watched him fill a glass to the rim with some dark-brown colored booze, chug-a-lugged it, then filled it again.

“Going to get drunk?” I asked in a rather snotty fashion; I was still steaming over the whole chipmunk thing.