Dustin took over Grammy’s house to escape his 400-pound wife. He’s in there now smoking meth and trashing the place. That’s according to the nursing home staff. These days, Grammy’s more candid with them than she is with anyone else in the family.

            The problem isn’t Dustin. The problem is that Grammy wants Dustin to stay in the house. He’s a distant relative of Grammy’s brother-in-law (something like that) who’s never found his way in the world. Grammy likes him because he’s always available to feed Angel, her cat, and because he smuggles her bottles of wine at the nursing home. He also poisons her mind against the rest of us.

            I was gradually becoming an atheist right around this time and Dustin was yet another piece of evidence for God’s nonexistence. When you think skeptically about religious claims, you become a sort of detective. Who is this invisible man in the sky who won’t help starving children but who gives a slob like Dustin a whole house to himself with Grammy’s full blessing and likely a stipend on top of it?

            Without asking anyone’s permission, I went to investigate—the rogue grandson, the budding detective, the newly-inspired God-killer.

            While tiptoeing around to the side of the house, hoping for a window to peek into, my mind mulled over the most obvious question at hand: What about this guy’s wife? What role does she play in this family feud? And is she really 400 pounds?

            The God of the Bible would have something to say about this either way. Marital issues are always front and center for the invisible champion of chaste, do-gooder morality.

            It was a carnival of depravity inside. From a kitchen window, I had a perfect view of the show. I couldn’t see Dustin, but the evidence painted a clear picture: Dustin cooking meth; Dustin throwing empty beer cans against the walls and family heirlooms; Dustin eating mountains of fast food; Dustin piling his dirty laundry on the floor for the rats to burrow into.

            Then I saw Angel, the cat. She was lying in the litter box—dead.

            Was she dead? This would change things. Not for God (who sees death as a place with no definite moral significance for animals—although this is up for debate, of course, as are all points involving history books and fairy tales), but for Grammy.

            If Angel was dead, then Grammy could no longer justify letting this meth-head loser stay in her house.

            I snapped some pictures. It’s always good to have evidence. Hard evidence. Even if you can’t show anyone. Evidence verifies that there is a certain reality at hand, thereby weakening the spurious powers of speculation.

            This is what it’s like to play God. You have a secret knowledge of how things exist behind closed doors, but then for some mysterious (bullshit) reason you can’t reveal yourself. In my case, if I told anyone in the family about my snooping, they’d be pissed. Don’t ask me why, but they would be. So, I’d have to wait it out, right along with the ignorant masses of my extended family, plus or minus a certain 400-pound woman.

            I went back to my car satisfied. Everything makes sense. No one’s happy. Nothing ends well. Case closed.

Rocco Sweetheart Johnson is a writer and artist in Los Angeles. He is the author of the novellas Meth Pirate Town and Aella: The Unauthorized Biography of a Sex Goddess, both available from Jokes Review Books. Follow Rocco on Twitter @RoccoSweetheart.