Here, then, is Casimir Zoladski. He’s entering the Boss’s house. Keys on a hook. Jacket on a hanger. Upstairs. Calls, “Dziadzia? You here? Granddad? Haversham?” Shoes echoing in the hallway. Someone behind him: the Boss. His grandfather. The old man is without a scrap of clothing. His white shriveled body sags. Wisps of hair on his chest, arms, thighs. Pubic bush like a wire brush.

The old man coughs. Can’t help it. It’s the cancer.

Casimir spins. He has something he can’t help, either: he laughs.

The Boss’s cough subsides.

He stares at the boy with some commingling of hate and pity.

“You’re not ready for this, are you?” the Boss asks.

“Dziadzia. You…” Casimir fails to speak the obvious: “You’re naked.” Instead he shifts his tone to one of caution and uncertainty: “You’re supposed to be at a meeting with Haversham. Are you OK?”

“I’m OK.”

“I’ll call Haversham–”

“No, you won’t.”

Casimir looks at his watch. His thoughts, broadcast: I’m supposed to meet her. Images in his mind: a girl. Tartan skirt. Blue cardigan. Mean eyes and a wicked smile resolving into a softer, happier countenance. A name: Nora Pearl. He’s waiting for her. He loves her. Or thinks he does. Could be little hearts around his head like pink birds.

“Answer the question,” the kid’s grandfather says, sneering.

“What… what question?”

“You’re not ready for this. To take over.”

“N…no. I’m not.”

“That’s disappointing.”

“I know. It’s just–”

“You’re weak. I knew it all along. Your father was weak, too, but in a different way. He was weak in the mind. You’re weak in the heart. You don’t have the stones for this.”

“I don’t.”

“Then I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for–”

The Boss roars, leaps. Hands around the kid’s throat. Casimir backpedals. The Boss begins uttering something, some strange chant or prayer. It sounds like “Ugatha thra iss ashana ugatha vithra mell tanta,” and it gets louder and louder as he wrings the boy’s neck–

Casimir tries to turn, but falls–

The Boss is on him. Grabs his grandson’s head with preternatural strength. Smashes it forward. Just once. Once is enough to pulp the kid’s face like an orange shoved into the bell of a juicer. The young man’s body shakes violently. The Boss rides it out like a rodeo cowboy.

And then the body is still.

Blood pools.

The old man walks away. Returns with a brown paper bag.

The objects of ritual. A marigold in each hand. Broken iron chains in the pockets. A smear of chocolate on each fingertip. And then a splash from a bottle of mezcal poured on the blood pooling beneath his smashed-in face.

All the while, that chant–

ugatha thra iss ashana ugatha vithra mell tanta

ugatha thra iss ashana ugatha vithra mell tanta