Every Monday night Mr. K and I get all hopped up on coconut rum and run around the condo like a couple of banshees, destroying Mother’s terra cotta plates and defenestrating anything Grandpa could use to beat us with, like belts, billy clubs and spatulas.
Only after I’d performed gruesome and irreversible procedures on the lab rat did my assistant Annabel apprise me of the fact that it was not a lab rat but rather a pygmy marmoset whose dissection the University had been saving for a more qualified zoologist and a Discovery Channel camera crew.
What a spectacle: the Emerson family told their chef to use double the recommended amount of beets for today’s cold borscht so the preternaturally gassy patricians could run amok in the mansion and fill every one of its closets and crawl spaces with ghastly Emerson family fumes.
