He walked his twink, dirty little ass down stairs and wandered into the kitchen, to make sure his knives were still there, and they were. He walked to his fridge and opened it to see if anything was in it, and there was, just not fridge stuff. There were some rats and hobo fingers in there, and a singular, shriveled, old piece of lettuce. Michael thought to look in the cabinets to see if there was anything else to munch on, but there was only stale chips, just like Michael. He stumbled out the front door and onto the porch to see if anything was going on. He smelt something. Meat. It was coming from the neighbor. He trotted over there, front door was locked, so he tried the back and got in. The meat was in the oven, and everyone was in the living room, t-posing and levitating to the sound of cheeks clapping on the radio, just doing average family things. He kicked the oven open, and grabbed the meat, but being the dingus he is, forgot it would be hot, so it surprised him at first, but after a second he was fine and trotted back out with the meatloaf. He went back to his house and slapped the meat onto the counter.
