Jim Richards stood in the doorway of his living room, his jaw clenched, one hand -- the one with the wildly deformed pinky finger -- reflexively clutching a book. A book he intended to read to his grandson, Michael, whether he liked it or not. Look at that little bastard, sitting there, clutching his knees to his chest like the pussified little mama's boy he was. Jim, a brawny ex-military man prided himself on his masculinity, and it killed him to know his grandson -- his only grandson -- would most assuredly not be following in his footsteps, not with the pansy upbringing Jim's flaky daughter and spineless son-in-law were giving the boy. But in the meanwhile, Jim intended to do whatever he could to counteract this. Starting with an abridged addition of The Art of War by Sun Tzu.
Arranging his craggy features into a more child-friendly mask, he warily approached Michael. "Hi there, Mike," he said in the friendliest voice he could muster. "What do you say we read a book?"
Michael barely stirred from his lumpish pose, merely turning his head briefly to give his grandfather that blank look which so irritated Jim.
"You can watch that any day!" Jim said, trying to keep his voice pleasant. "How often do you and I read a story?"
Michael shrugged and turned back to the television.
"Disobey me, will you?" Jim thought. His left hand, with it's shifting deformed finger went to his belt ...
... two hours and a lot of blood later, Jim sat in his easy chair.
"Well, I see Grampa hasn't lost his touch!"
Jim looked up to see his magnificently uncomprehending wife Marian standing there, ubiquitous cup of coffee perched precariously on her own deformed claw.
"Because Grampa threatened to blow up the TV," Jim thought, the severed heads of his grandson and grandaughter firmly tucked under each arm.