Incest stories, mom and son nothing’s wrong.. “It’s been a great night,” I said to myself, “a really good night, and I’m just about ready for bed.”
It was one thirty a.m. my sister, my brother and their families had left before midnight as they had small kids to consider, and the last of the guests for my father’s forty sixth birthday celebrations had left a half an hour ago, leaving the back garden looking like a bomb had hit it. I’d spent the past fifteen minutes picking up the rubbish, and was now almost finished.
I picked up the last half eaten plate of food, threw the scraps on the lawn saying, “that’s for you Bozo, and it’s all you’re getting tomorrow since you’ve eaten enough for four dogs tonight.”
Bozo raised his head, showing only mild interest in whatever it was that I’d thrown onto the ground, before falling back down and starting the process of going back to sleep. What a difference to the attack dog that he normally was, who from the first scent of food treated anyone trying to eat it as his sworn enemy, even knocking over a young boy tonight who’d had the audacity to think that the sausage in his hand, was actually his.
Bozo was a Labrador who despite our attempts to put him on diet still seemed to get fatter every day. Now, he just couldn’t even be bothered getting up to look at what it was that had fallen into what was nominally his exclusive territory. Anything that fell into it was his, animal, vegetable or mineral, it didn’t matter to him, he had his reputation to defend, so he’d make a very serious attempt to eat it, or at least bury it
I turned off the outside lights, closed the patio door and the curtains, then turned to see my mother with her elbows on the bench top, her face in her hands, and her eyes closed. She’d had just a little too much to drink, she wasn’t drunk, but she was what you might call, ‘relaxed and mellow.’
I looked across into the lounge room to see the birthday boy asleep on the couch. He was super relaxed and more than just mellow, he’d had more to drink than he should have. He was drunk, and likely to stay on the couch for the next few hours.
Richard Angus Martin the Third, known when he was in the good books as Richard The Third, and when he wasn’t, as Richard The Turd. Mostly he was called Richard The Turd, or simply just, The Turd, and he’d managed to wipe himself out, again.
I looked back at Mum, who still hadn’t opened her eyes, went to the bench top facing her, put my elbows onto it, and softly placed my forehead against hers. She opened her eyes slowly, pulled back to allow them to focus properly, and then seeing that it was me, smiled and returned her forehead to be against mine before closing her eyes again.
What she hadn’t realised was that as she’d moved away from me, I’d put my hands onto her forearms, so that when she’d moved back, her breasts had landed nicely on top of the backs of my hands, she didn’t notice.
“Been a good night Ma.”
“Mmmm, it certainly has, where’s Richard The Turd?”
“Passed out on the couch.”
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