Frank got the house, and the wife, and the little dog, and a chair he could sit in, and he hated every square foot of it.
He'd been assembled for better than this. Made on purpose, out of parts, by a man who wanted something magnificent. And here he is on a Tuesday with a lawn.
So on Hallowe'en night, when the neighbourhood is out and the porch lights are going and every child on the street is wearing a bad copy of his own face, Frank puts down the drink, and he goes out to the garage, and he finds the can.
He is very careful about the dog.
The flames go up green — you'd expect orange, but he was never made out of ordinary things — and Frank walks off down the middle of the road with his hands in his pockets, and he never once looks back.
Best night he ever had.
