I've stared at the whiskey bottle on my desk for hours. It's slowly lost its volume as I've whirled down the rabbit hole of my mind.

Vampires are real.

My daughter's an idiot.

The Indian reservation down the road is just a bunch of furries.

It's not 1998 anymore. I can't just call Wesley Snipes and have him do his whole katana routine. This is a real problem that I have to face.

I've got half the whiskey left to figure this out. I rack my brain across all the Hollywood lore I can think of. Discarding the most outlandish of the solutions. I'm not as spry as I used to be. Fighting mutants with a sharp stick probably isn't my best bet.

Can a man who doesn't believe in God get away with using holy water I muse. Probably not.

Silver bullets maybe? I eye the shotgun on the table next to the whiskey bottle. Maybe grandma's gravy boat can be melted down into something useful after all?

I put the melted gravy boat in the maybe column and move on to other strategies.