Gemotions

The notice lay crumpled on the kitchen table, a testament to the landlord’s audacity. Marcus picked at a loose thread on his threadbare jeans, his jaw tight. They wanted him out? After all this time? He knew every creak in the floorboards, every draft that snaked under the doors.

He went to the fridge, a nearly bare behemoth, and slammed the door. He’d leave when he was good and ready, which, undoubtedly, would be never. He would make them work for it. Let them try. He'd make this a headache they wouldn't forget. They wanted a fight? He'd give them a war.