not a dad

[scubatankfilledwithfarts]

After about three years of constant earaches, crusty food stuck in his mullet, screaming (from the kids too), and hankies covered in snot, Brock Samson is practically halfway out the door with a new little side mission— spiritually, if not physically. The man doesn’t need a lot. A couple of shirts. One pair of pants.

His knife. That might even be excessive. Brock can’t believe he’s dragging this huge suitcase with him just because he’s going to bring back presents.

[if anyone accuses him of being soft they’ll get his knife to their eye, naturally]
Though his back is turned it doesn’t take a trained assassin to notice the two toddlers who tumble, giggling and shushing each other, into the luggage. Now, he could call Doc. Get him to wrangle the noisy tods back to their room. He could yank the luggage open and yank them out in turn.

But Brock Samson doesn’t do this. His heart is not warm and fuzzy, none of that. He zips the luggage up, hauls it over his shoulder and calls,

“Alright, I’m heading out!”

All noise within the suitcase don’t cease, these kids never shut up, but it’s a little softer. The shushing (Dean did) must have worked. And the wiggling is only to a minimum, soft little arms and chunky feet shifting beneath the fabric.

Brock fastens the seatbelt around it, nice and secure, and lets Adrianne purr as he peels out of the driveway.

The giggling turns into shrieking laughter, the luggage bounces, and not from going 70 m.p.h on these turns [they’re used to it, taking it fast—these babies never had a chance to something slow and normal—and if that isn’t just a kick in the teeth].

He’ll take them back after a couple more laps, there’s no rush. They’re as safe as can be.