A Death in the Dining Room
A man wearing a Santa Claus suit lay in the road. His body was mangled. The blood pool was still growing under and around him. His arm was tucked underneath his back and his face looked like it had been smashed in with a waffle iron. Or a Toyota Corolla.
There was no thunder, no glowing doorway, no mysterious wind blowing through the apartment, and no choir of angels politely alerting me that physics had submitted its resignation.
The deck simply felt heavier.