James Worthing fostered a loathing. It was not something he declared openly, though his sister knew of it (and thus reused to visit the suburban semi he called home) and his mother, God rest her soul, had begged him to be rid of it.
The loathing, for all its bad press, knew no better than its nature. It kept to the shadows mostly and had a bad habit of unscrewing the light bulbs to increase them but it and James had reached an agreement that it would allow forty watt bulbs over the stairs and in the bathroom and kitchen. During daylight hours, grimy windows and the yellowed nets his mother had put up kept out most of the light.
James spent most of his free time at home with the creature. When he wasn’t at work or his Monday evening roleplayer’s guild, he and the loathing would watch films they’d downloaded from illegal sources on the internet and the loathing, spitting words though ill-fitting teeth and half-toasted popcorn kernels, would give a running commentary on the reasons why a film was implausible, absurd, undeniably abhorrent or dreadfully acted.
James believed every word.