GD: Of course my father shot Coco.
WS: Why do you say “of course”?
GD: The man was with my mother, when she was four days postpartum, having just birthed a child that was probably the visitor’s and not the husband’s! Coco was unbothered by Father’s anger and so Father had to make a show. He shot Coco right through the couch.
WS: Do you mean “through the crotch”?
GD: Did you not hear me say “couch”?
WS: Is that a euphemism?
GD: No it’s not a euphemism! I’d say pecker or nads or twigs and berries if that’s what I meant.
WS: Yes, I suppose you would.
GD: It went like this. Coco hid behind the couch. My father shot him, three times. He died. There was a trial.
WS: Of worldwide fame.
GD: I’m not sure about “worldwide” but Henry James wanted to pen a book with Father as the primary character. After the trial, Daddy spent some time in prison. He was released and everyone eventually moved on. Everyone except dear old Dad. He died in a lunatic asylum, driven mad by remembering what he’d done. And as for me, mais en fin je suis la fille de l’assassin. That, dear writer, is how my story goes.