Patrick’s mother and stepfather approach his house from the driveway. His stepfather had grown close to him over many years of wooing his mother, and was looking forward to seeing his stepson for the holidays. The warm Christmas lights are hung carefully over the entryway and front face f the house with near perfect symmetry and evenness. The scents of chimneys burning various forms of timber fill the air, flooding the senses with comfort.
Patrick’s mother approaches the door, but his stepfather steps ahead of her. “Please, allow me.” As he opens the door, Patrick is awaiting across the threshold. “Welcome to my home!” he says comfortingly. “Please, come inside. I’ll have some potato knishes ready soon.” With a humble flourish, he guides his stepfather and mother into the home.
As his stepfather takes a seat, his smile fades as his expression changes to one of concern and discomfort. Plastered on the walls across from the couch, in the place most people would have a television, perhaps airing one of many channels depicting a burning fireplace and playing christmas carols, is what can only be described as a depraved shrine to various drawn fictional characters.
“Patrick?” his mother calls out, concerned. “What is this?”
He calls back “What’s what?”
“These… things on your wall, dear.”
“Oh, that’s mai waifu.”
“yo- your wife?”
“No, mai waifu. Knishes are ready!”
He steps out of the kitchen carrying a tray of warm, plump potato knishes, and his stepfather is suddenly beset with the most disturbing of sights. Patrick-_- has changed his clothing, and where once a fine winter jacket and slacks were worn, now rests merely a pink frilly apron and oven mitts. Upon the lower area that must have covered his well-endowed crotch read the words “Waifu Love Baton”.
“Patrick!” his mother screams. “Put some clothes back on, you’re indecent!”
The shock must have caused yet another greying hair, merely a fragment of its former brunette luster, to finally fall from his mother’s head. She suddenly seemed to become distraught with her waning youth, for she began to frantically try to reshape her hair with her red-polished fingernails.
“Son, what in God’s name are you doing?” his father demanded. “Put your clothes back on and explain what’s going on!”
“No, dad, it’s fine!” Patrick interjected. “Please, just let me explain.”
He placed the tray of knishes on the end table before he quickly and daintily stepped to the shrine of his creation. He had no time to admire it; he must show his parents the truth.
He bent over, baring his hairy, white, pasty ass to his mother and stepfather, eliciting a gasp. He quickly removed the oven mitts and quietly opened the box in front of his shrine, withdrawing a dakimakura bearing the smiling and blushing image of his waifu.
“This is Hatateo Tatashti Teriyaki Suzuki Honda Civic, and she is my one and only true love.” His stepfather silently stood and approached his son. Could it be that Patrick-_- had gotten through to him?
In a sudden and unexpected move, his stepfather forcefully removed the pillow from his arms and put him in a full nelson. “WHAT IN THE FUCK ARE YOU SMOKING?”
“I’m not on anything dad!” Patrick-_- shouted. He was lying, of course; he had taken to the habit of snorting a line of cocaine before the beginning of every holiday event. “This is who I am! I love her!”
“Dana, call the hospital. Something’s wrong with our son!” his stepfather said. “WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD’S LEFT NUT ARE YOU ON, BOY!?” his stepfather demanded once more. Patrick-_- searched for his waifu, and what he saw frightened and enraged him. “You threw her against the dresser! The candles!” Quickly, he slithered out of his father’s grip on his flimsy, toothpick-like appendeges, and ran to rescue his waifu.
“Are you okay darli-” before he could finish, his stepfather grabbed his arm, causing Patrickto trip and slam his head on the cupboard. The candles shook and began to wobble, and one landed on Hatateo Tatashti Teriyaki Suzuki Honda Civic.
As shadow began to spread from the edges of Patrick’s vision, he saw his waifu catch fire from the candle. There was nothing he could do; sleep’s heartless embrace took him, and he was unconcious.
Eight years later, Patrick has become a meth-addled, heroine-addicted vagrant; his mother and father disowned him, and due to his crushing medical bills and psychosis from the whole ordeal, he fell into a crippling depression. His house was forclosed upon and all of his posessions – save for a small scrap of unscorched cloth depicting his waifu’s face – were taken and auctioned off. He now spends his days wandering from shelter to shelter, hoping to trade for a needle and thread so that he may restore his waifu to her former beauty.
