No. Literally, Thermy is in my house. Or rather, a guy in a thermometer suit.
(note: artist's representation, through shutter technology)
Breaking into my window, he's slurring his words. He's in the kitchen. He's got a gun! No, wait, that's just a sandwich.
It is exciting to be typing this when the house is in danger. A little lewd. I feel like a visine golem, in Kandahar or something. That my minerals have greater heft and inflection than usual. Evening, however, is not amused. She's crouching under the computer desk as I write this, sharpening her knife.
"This fucker is going down."
For some reason I think it would be a mistake to get the police involved.
The sandwich is corned beef. SIGNIFICANCE PENDING.