He peered down at his work order. ‘Mrs. Bachman. Hmrph.’ Probably another old saggy bitch, he mused, adjusting himself as he made his away toward... the door. You see, the carpet cleaner wasn’t exactly getting satisfied at home by Mrs. Carpet Cleaner, so he derived enjoyment from teasing lonely housewives whose husbands were far too occupied with office matters to tend to their bedroom duties. The carpet cleaner rang the doorbell. He peered around, jealous of the fancy house in which this. “I think someone just fell off the turnip truck,” Sean said.“Did you have any paint left?”“I put a half a can of white and a quarter can of green by the dumpster,” Sean answered.“Perfect. Go get them,” his father said.Rather than try to talk his dad out of making the billboard, Sean turned and headed down the path to fetch the paint. He walked along the path thinking of how many times he had traveled it over the past few years. As had become habit, he moved little stones onto the path using his. More

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