Learning to Fall: bad son. David reached his wits end a week before his son Terry snapped and turned into a killing machine. The money he saved from his last gig, a brief stint wearing a bear costume twelve hours a day at an amusement park, ran out two weeks after he made a repeat cameo in his old life. His wife wasn't helping, what with her nymphomaniac needs and small-time job. His love to her was a lie, a bargain. She was small-time, always had been.
Small-time, just the way a man who runs home from acting--from his dream--feels small-time, inconsequential, after the best he could do was land a job working half days stinking up a furry costume getting kicked by brats and yelled at by drunks.
To be home, even as a failure, felt good. Yet, good as it was at first to see his son, the old ways--his demons--swept back into his mind and, before he knew it, the little boy was a fixture at his side, believing the lies his father told him in the dark sweaty evenings the two shared alone in Terry's bedroom. Most times David had just come from his wife, a woman whose eager lovemaking smelled desperate at any distance.
Desparate. Funny how that worm turned slowly in his own gut now that he and his unbalanced son live on the run. Their roommates, a raft of prostitute queens, sell the last of themselves to buy mascara and john-durable lip gloss. In the mirror, after finishing up a paunchy, hairy stranger for a fifty, David only sees what his own father told him late nights in the bedroom where he was first visited, turned into a monster early. He's a bad son. Now so's Terry.