Lloyd puts his foot down.

Lloyd stepped out of Fuckmeat's cruiser with a swagger that he never knew before but somehow came to him naturally.

It was a fairly uneventful ride over. He made out with Fuckmeat while she was driving, assuming his luck would protect them. They only hit four pedestrians but they all happened to be violent offenders with outstanding warrents. And the traffic light they ran through but no one was at the intersection. And the orphanage they plowed into but it turned out to be a Nazi orphanage and they were all basically irredeemable at that point.

A boring ride.

And now here he was. Home. It was never a place that felt like home to him. But it would now.

Lloyd kicked the door in, luckily hitting the exact spot to splinter the hinges and knock the whole thing down. He sauntered inside and found his father at the kitchen table, coffee mug halfway to his mouth.

"Oh, uh... hey sport. Was that you knocking around over there?"

Not even a little bit of concern. None of them probably noticed he wasn't home last night. And sport? Dad probably didn't even remember his name today.

"Yeah," Lloyd replied. "That was me."

Just then, Lloyd's mother came in from the porch, wearing nothing but a black string bikini and an apron. She barely noticed her son as she sat a plate of grilled chicken on the table and sped into the kitchen.

"Now he doesn't want chicken, he wants roast. Honey, do you know where the crockpot is?"

Lloyd sat himself down at the table and picked the chicken up with his bare hands. Not hot enough to burn. He took a bite. But still warm and delicious. Perfectly seasoned.

Lloyd looked out and saw him out there, surrounded by a harem of Lloyd's exes on a warm, sunny day.

Chuck.

"Don't worry about the Crockpot, mom." He ordered. "It's not gonna matter in a minute."