The whole thing stemmed from me trying to have sex with Carson Constance Abernathy III. For the gay male readers, I’ll save you the trouble of reading further: he wasn’t attractive.

I settled into the sofa, preparing to gorge myself on the brainless mind-candy of a trashy magazine—specifically, a deep dive into whether Carrot Top or Kathy Griffin was the “truer” redhead. It was the kind of low-stakes feud I lived for. When the phone rang, I didn’t even look at the caller ID. I just crabbed, “Whoever this is, make it quick. I’m in the middle of a ginger-war.”

“Did anyone find it unusual that your aunt was…”

“A Furby?”

“…so small?”

Cousin Geoff and I looked at each other. We were both clutching sodas.

“Usually nobody mentions that,” said Cousin Geoff uncomfortably.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

It was 3:14 am in the Salazar home. Its owners, Anthony and Monica, slept deeply and breathed heavily in their marital bed.

I stood over them, still and silent, mentally preparing myself to execute the final part of the plan.

Baron von Blütvinnich’s manic cackles echoed through the halls of his ancestral home as the cathedral bell struck midnight. A bolt of lightning hit the manor’s ornate dome just as the clangs faded away, exactly as he had planned it.