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The radio continues to squeal and garble as the pilot keeps rattling off his distress call, but the only thing you can focus on right now is the rummaging coming from down the hall in the storage room. You stand there at your desk with your gun in your hand, it’s a bad habit, debating whether or not to pick up the receiver but whatever your son is up to is killing your focus. Plane man can wait right now you got to check this out.
Tucking your gun into your waistband you travel down the hall and into storage, you look down to see SON rolling around on the floor in a pile of wasted food with a mouthful of seeds, he attempts to crawl into one of the bags.
“Beebeebeebeebeebeebee pbbbbt”
your boy reeks of baked beans, two cans are somehow cracked open and strewn across the floor.
He’s unique.
Shaking your head you give the little dumbass a millennium bar from the top of the shelf, raspberry, you thank god he didn’t get into the five gallon paint bucket of thc gummies. He thanks you.
“Rapbrerry” infinitely wise. Like father like son.
“Rapbrerry. No beans, no seeds. Got it?”
He nods, way to lay down the law.
You saunter back over to the radio, no more food waste for now, either you or your wife will clean up the mess later. For now you have business to attend to.
You pick up the receiver, take a deep breath, and hold onto the button.
“This is “bunker” speaking, i’m reading you loud and clear soldier. Reading you loud and clear.”
