“What are you doing?” Stan asked. His father was on his knees surrounded by greasy tools, and the toilet lay on its side like an upended ship. A dark hole ringed by yellowy black wax stared up from the bathroom floor. The sewer reek was far worse than the leftover Chanel disaster upstairs. “I’m trying to save your mother a substantial amount of money,” Ron said. “You know how much water these relics use in a year?” Stan didn’t know. His father’s hands were covered in the yellowy black wax, a dab of which dangled from his cheek as well. “You disappeared last night,” Ron said. “Your mother’s going to kill you when she gets back.” Ron explained that they had all gone to the art gallery: Stan’s mother, Lily, Feldon and Gary. “Isn’t Feldon sick?” Stan asked. “Miraculous recovery. Must be something in the air around here.”
