Chapter Twenty-One: Quincy's Log Cabin

***

Quincy Renard was part English, part French. He hated one of his halves, and loved the other. He just couldn't decide which was which. For as long as he could remember, Quincy loved to build things - loved arts and crafts. Each day during school, Quincy sat in panicked-anticipation for art class, in which he would put all sorts of markers and paints to use in order to create his "masterpieces." However, after he submitted one of his projects for a contest, Quincy had to leave school. They all said he was "sick," but he didn't feel any different - certianly not as bad as he felt when he had the flu that one time. Quincy lived most of his life in Canada, a place he considered "quiet, nice, and pathetic." He didn't like Mr. Robertson from down the street because he "smelled like blood and urine." He didn't like Mrs. Parson from the next block over because she "had a fucked-up nose." Eventually, Quincy decided to move away from Canada, from his family and friends (Quincy didn't actually have family and friends). Quincy ultimately decided on upstate New York - a small, rural town where the people couldn't bother him with their smells and looks. However, there weren't any houses to be purchased in the area, only land. So Quincy purchased himself some land. It was a quiet piece of meadow near the woods. It was perfect. Once he had purchased himself some land, Quincy got to work on building his house. He had always wanted a cabin before and so this is what he opted for. Quincy was so happy that everyone in the area was so nice in helping him build his cabin. Mr. Morris lent a hand, and Mrs. Anderson chipped in, and Mr. and Mrs. Johnson gave it their all. After three long months, Quincy's cabin was finished. He moved in on a beautiful Saturday morning, and got himself right at home. He loved his cabin - it was so full of life. Everywhere he looked, the parts were there - smelling like blood and urine. Mr. Morris' arms and legs made up the front door jam. Mrs. Anderson's torso was part of his mantle. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson made a great addition to the bedroom set. As Quincy reclined in his armchair, made entirely out of his father, he smiled and inhaled deeply on his pipe, made from his little brother's penis. He realized that upstate New York wasn't at all different from Canada. It was home. Home sweet home.

***