Personal project/short story So… the Devil is crashing on our couch right now. He's not beautiful like everyone says. Just kind of a standard bro. White guy with wavy, dirty blonde hair down to his shoulders, a little ruddy and pock-marked and puffy, but basically ok-looking (if you're into standard bros). Maybe the puffiness is from crying? A slow stream of tears and blood and mucus is constantly oozing from his eyes, nose, and mouth. But most of the time I don't see his face at all. It's completely covered by an-economy sized, upturned Quaker Oats container—his "mask". I feel kinda bad for him, but honestly, I like it better when he wears his mask. He always looks so upset when I see his face. So far the Devil has not been a good house guest. He's kind of a slob. No matter how much my mother berates him for leaving his dirty underwear in the pie, it keeps happening. The way she treats him is starting to weird me out. Like, she isn't just annoyed because he's a bad house guest. She seems really, deeply hurt by him and concerned that he's not living up to his potential. Why is he even staying here, anyway? Mom won't tell me, but my current theory is that he's my long-lost half-brother. Then there's the horse. This big, majestic, dark brown horse, standing ominously in the corner of the living room, surrounded by flames that never die and also never burn anything around them. Never moves. Never makes a sound. Just stands there being creepy and ruining movie nights. It just kind of appeared one day, a few days after the Devil got here. We assumed it had something to do with him, but I think my mom was too polite to ask. This morning Mom finally realized that the horse is a boss she has to defeat, and now she's out collecting a team of friends to help. The Devil has his mask off today, and I realize for the first time that he kind of reminds me of Quentin Tarantino. "Hey," I ask, "do you like Quentin Tarantino?" "Who's Quentin Tarantino?" says the Devil. "You know! The director. Kill Bill. Kill all the people." "Is he American?" "Um… yeah." "I'd probably like him then. I like Americans." Uggghhhhhhh I can't handle this, you guys! What am I gonna do if it turns out he IS my brother, and I have to live with him forever and share my bedroom and wear his hand-me-downs and aaaaagghhhh why won't that fucking horse stop staring at me!!!?? Oh wait here's Mom. Gonna go watch this sweet boss battle! TTYL!