It's Pied

Piedew account. The internet? I don't know.

Suddenly Joe Slattermill knew for sure he'd have to get out quick or else blow his top and knock out with the

shrapnel of his skull, the props and patches holding up his decaying home that was like a house

of big wooden plaster and wallpaper cards except for the huge fireplace and ovens and chimney across the kitchen

from him. Those were stone solid enough though. The fireplace was chin high at least twice that long

and filled from end to end with roaring flames.

Above were the square doors of the ovens in a row. His wife baked for part of their living.

Above the ovens was the wall-long mantelpiece, too high for his mother to reach or Mr. Gutz to jump anymore,

set with all sorts of ancestral curios,

but any of them that weren't stone or glass or China

had been so dried and darkened by decades of heat that they looked like nothing but shrunk

in human heads and black gold balls. At one end were clustered his wife's square gin bottles.

At least she puts them on the mantle.

I have to wait through my wife's gin bottles just to get through the room.

Yeah, tell me about it.

I can't even sneak in the house anymore without breaking a bunch of them.

At night it's like diehard in here.

Honestly, I don't mind all the drinking.

Why can't my wife recycle the gin box?

Yeah, take a little responsibility for yourself.

I've cut myself on those things so many times I got gin foot now.

...