Edvard never took to Aunt H's bath salts.
A few days ago, while watching the news on TV with my Dad and nephew:
Nephew: "Please. Can we watch Cartoon Network? Pleeeaase?"
Me: "Sorry buddy. You know what Grandpa's like if he doesn't get his hourly news fix. Look, an explosion!"
Nephew: "Whoa! What was that?"
Me: "Oh, some terrorist somewhere basically strapped a bomb to his chest and then let it go off in the middle of the day in a shopping mall."
Nephew: "O.K. What is that?"
Me: "Pretty cool huh? It's called an earthquake. The earth just kind of starts shaking, like that building in Italy, see? The shakes get so bad, buildings start tumbling down."
Nephew: "Oh my God!"
Me: "I know, right? See, this happened in America. Some guys just started snacking on other people's faces."
Dad: "Zombies, all of them!"
Me: "Oh come on, Dad! Why do you always turn it off when the sports bit comes on?"
Dad: "I don't want your nephew to grow up thinking winning is everything. Sports is too competitive."
Nephew: "Yeah, I want to play a video game."
Dad: "No more video games for you. Too much violence."
Dad and I step out on the veranda to look at the moon, grunt at each other and say things like "looks like rain, oh she's 'bout to come down hard" though we know nothing about such matters. It helps us feel manly. That's when we hear the strains of the most terrifying music known to man.
We run back inside, but it's too late. The lights have been turned off, but the TV is on as we know only too well. The opening credits roll to a halt, and the screen is ablaze in the fiery reality of Junior MasterChef.
Looming out of the wasteland between couch and TV is the silhouette of what was once my little nephew, wielding remote control in hand. I stifle a 120 million dollar scream.
"Get the power drill," says Dad, "we have to finish him before he turns, or he'll infect the others."