The Demon in the Doll

Chapter 4

Hello. My name is June Griner, and I'm not quite the cunt that my son Buddy Griner is trying to portray. Don't get me wrong. I certainly was never mother-of-the-year material, but it could have been worse. He never had to eat dog food. Nor was he kept out in the shed during the depths of winter. He was always clean and safe and warm with plenty of access to food and medicine.

Could I have loved him more? Of course. But my parents never hugged me, either. Consequently, showing affection wasn't my strong suit. I never thought it was that big of a deal. I guess I was wrong.

Anyway, on with the story...

I rolled out of bed on Sunday morning feeling miserable. I had a beer and wine hangover, and there was only one cure. Vodka. I always kept a bottle of Stoli in the freezer, and I took it out and poured myself three shots of joy juice. They went down nice and smooth.

After that, I looked in Buddy's room. He was sleeping on top of his bed without any clothes. His penis was hanging out for all the world to see. I immediately shut the door and began banging loudly against the wood.

I could hear some movement, so I knocked some more.

He said, "What?"

"It's ten o'clock. We're going to be late for church. Hurry up and take a shower."

"Can I skip this time?"

"No. We pay homage to Mother God every Sunday. There's no skipping."

"You don't even believe in a higher power. Everything is political with you."

"How dare you! You have no idea what I believe. Now get out of bed and put on some pants. I don't want to see that snake between your legs. It's grossing me out."

"Next time, respect my privacy."

"I agree completely. Live and learn."

As you can tell by now, I didn't attend a traditional house of worship. My church was much more inclusive. The congregation was populated by lesbians and gay men and transexuals and drag queens. And let's not forget the drug addicts and alcoholics. These were the types of people that Jesus loved the most. We needed him more than traditional Christians. Our priestess even dressed in a colorful flowing robe with a rainbow pattern, and I'm sure that Christ would have appreciated her creativity if the conservatives hadn't nailed him to a cross. I never believed in the resurrected Son of God. On the contrary. My Jesus was as dead as a doornail.

I walked into the backyard. Wanda was sitting on a lawn chair near the firepit. She was smoking a joint. The weed was laced with her pain medication. She had terrible aches and pains that were left over from a car accident which had taken place when she had been a teenager. She lived in a constant state of agony. Her drugs kept her sane.

I walked up behind her and massaged her shoulders. "How are you feeling?"

She shrugged. "Not too good. I'm always in pain."

"Is that rocket taking the edge off."

She nodded. "It sure is."

"Try to hurry along. I don't want to be late for church."

"Would you like a hit?" She held out the joint in my direction.

"No thanks. By Dr. Phil standards, I'm already an alcoholic. The last thing I need is another addiction." I chuckled humorlessly. "One is enough."

Wanda turned to look at me. "I've got some bad news."

"What?"

"My parents are coming to the service."