This fic contains OFFENSIVE material. I warned you.

HOUSEHOLD GODS

1. Wait With You

He stands staring. His head, tilted; long bunches of red hair are gathered into an elastic tie. It leaned lopsided on the top of his head. He stood looking onto the small woman in front of him, who was chewing on dinner. Only a few moments ago, he'd watched a small boy douse her dinner with a tall, green can of Raid.

She was chewing, chewing more and eating. Swallowing, then forking up more and chewing. The man looked at his watch, just a minute and fifteen seconds to go. He leaned against the wall, watching; waiting. Spit starts to spill from her twisting lips. Her watering eyes widen and her throat pulses. She starts to gag and her mouth fills with vomit. She pushes her chin up, opening her mouth like a snagged fish. The drool and bile leak down her face. She takes in a waft of air, struggling to breathe and sucking the puke into her lungs. The acid stings and scorches. Ah, what a shame!

She jumps up from the table and grabs at her burning throat. Her purple lips pucker and gurgling noises fill the air as if she were a snorting pig. Under her nails are the blood and flesh of her torn neck. How desperate for air she must be to try and tear through her own skin!

Her eyes edge out of their sockets, glassy with their juice. Her body sways over her shaking legs and she stumbles around. He steps out of her way, letting her wander frantically into the kitchen. She huffs and gurgles like a draining sink. Forty-one seconds. She paws around the counters, her palms slapping against them wildly. She burbles loudly, but surely she must know she remains unheard!

Yet she clings onto life as she grips onto the coiling cord of the phone. Her hand smacks against the buttons. Assortments of numbers are pressed. Ah, he could help her out a bit, couldn't he?

From behind her, he reaches and pushes down the three emergency numbers, 911. Only twenty seconds. He looks back onto her now crumpling form. She hugs the tiles of the kitchen floor, snorting and wheezing. Her tongue pokes out from her puffy lips and fluid pools around her mouth. His face scrunches away from the unpleasantness. That's just not pretty. Nine seconds.

Her fists begin to unfurl like blooming flowers, slow and reluctant. Her eyes narrow from their popped out state, relaxing into a surprised expression. Her swelled tongue presses against the ceramic floor and sticks to the pooling mucus. He glances at his watch; four seconds. Her flared nostrils retract and her brows drop from her forehead. Her spine hangs and her shoulders ease. One second.

She stands next to the redheaded man and looks onto her own corpse. She tilts her head, "That little shit," she says. "He poisoned my food, didn't he?" She shakes her head, her blond hair swaying. "I met you today at the bank," her eyes jump around her kitchen as she fits the pieces together. "You knew this was going to happen?"

"More or less," he says.

"So I'm dead?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

She sighs in exaggeration. Her eyes shift onto the redhead, who seems to have just appeared. She breathes heavily again.

"You ready?" he asks.

"Sure," she says flatly. "What's next?"

"We have a soul funeral." Late sirens scream in their approach. He extends an arm, "After you," he says. The blond ghost steps in front. He reaches a long limb behind himself, grasping a leather bag from the kitchen counter.

"Aren't you coming?"

"Yeah," he says, shuffling through the bag and taking a slim, black wallet. She turns and his hands are minding themselves in his pockets. "Well," he smiles, "shall we go then?"

Traffic is heavy. Metal monsters are soaring by and he walks alone. His eerie companion, now passed on, left nothing but the lingering and stinging sensation of insect poison in his eyes.

His mouth stretches into a yawn and he steps onto the crammed street. It's so packed that no cars can inch ahead. They all wait and wait. He makes his way swiftly through the traffic, earning honks and shouts. Asshole this. Moron that. His red hair flies in the wind. His eyes ache, so he shuts them for only a moment. Someone shouts from in front of him. Saying, "Hey! Watch-!"

And he doesn't hear the rest. All he hears is a smack, as his body is flattened against a turning bus. He hears the cracking of his bones; the snap of his femur as his thigh disappears under the bus. Around him is all this hot, sticky blood. It's thick and dark and just pooling onto the street. He sees the splatter of his gore on the front of the bus. Shouts, ringing and just fucking nonsense enter his ears, filling his pounding head. He groans. How annoying!

People rush around him, pushing and shouting and dialing. They scream for help. They ask if he's all right; can he feel his legs? Can he see?

He shakes out his squashed leg. It's a damn bloody mess. He can't believe that a fucking bus hit him. He rubs his hand into his bloody skull. He has a massive headache. He stands on his broken leg and wobbles onto the sidewalk. People shout louder and he says, "I'm fine! I'm fine!"

In his thigh he feels a deep pulsing, like a soft current of electricity. The pieces of his shattered bones feel charged and tetchy, like magnets. He feels the fractions pull together, pushing through his soupy flesh, connecting and snapping together again. He winces as the bones pinch into him. His torn muscles stretch toward each other, the ligaments stitching back into themselves. He pushes a man away from him, "I'm fine!" He says, "This happens all the time." And the man backs off.

He starts walking down the sidewalk and the crowd disperses, chattering and re-watching clips of the incident on their videophones. He stretches out his shoulder. It's a bit stiff but completely functional.

"Hey, wait!" The voice is calling from behind him. He turns and faces a young man, whose hand is extending towards him. "Hey!" the guy calls again. He's short and Japanese, with cropped, orange hair. He guesses that boy must be bleaching it. The cropped spikes bend softly in the breeze as the boy approaches. "You can't be alright," he says. "Please, my family runs a clinic just a block from here." His face molds with concern. "Just let us have a look. Seriously, you were hit by bus just now."

The man scratches the new skin grown on his scalp. "Nah," he says. "I'm pretty sure I'm fine." He feels a tug on his battered t-shirt.

"You're not fine. I don't even know how you're walking," the boy says. "Please come with me."

The clinic is small and clean. Narrow cots are pushed into corners, divided by drawn, plastic curtains. The air smells of sanitizer. The young, Japanese boy strides around the room. "My Dad should be here any minute. He'll be the one to check you out," he says.

"He's a doctor?" the man asks.

"Yeah, but he's not like, an intense one or anything."

"Ah," he runs a hand into his red hair, "So what's your name, kid?"

"Ichigo. And I'm not a kid."

"Alright, alright. Ichigo, then, are you a doctor?"

"Of course not. I'm fifteen!" The boy hid a scowl. "Um, are you… in pain or anything? I can hook you up with some pain killers…"

"Not necessary. Say… I don't suppose you've got morphine laying around here, eh?"

"We're a local clinic."

"Too bad."

"And who's this?" The deep voice rumbled with maturity. In the doorway stood a tall, dark haired man in a white coat.

"Dad," Ichigo says. "This is the guy I mentioned on the phone. He collided with a bus- it was unreal."

"Hit by a bus?" his father repeats.

"It was just a nudge, really," the man suggests.

"We might need to do some x-rays," the father mumbles.

"No! No, that's really going too far. I'm good."

"Sorry, what did you say your name was?" Ichigo's father asks.

"Um," he says. "Abarai Renji, but-"

"Ichigo! Could you ask Yuzu to fetch a mop? Abarai-san is just bleeding everywhere…" Ichigo leaves. "Alright, Abarai-san. Shirt off and let's have a look at you."

…

He walks down the street, his red hair flying. He's alone with his hands tucked into his pockets. He heads back to his flat. The flat he's begun to occupy after its previous owner fell victim to a horrible freak accident. He figured he could remain there for at least a few more weeks. That is, until it's rented out to another living being.

Ichigo enters the small, white room with a mop. He couldn't find his sister. The room is empty except for his Dad, who eagerly accepts the damp cleaning tool. "Where's…?" Ichigo's voice trails as he glances around once more.

"Oh? Abarai-san? I let him leave. He was pretty bruised up, but other than that- he was perfectly okay."

"That's impossible," the boy says.

The flat is empty and dusty. A rusted fan creates a warm current in the air and blows around a moldy scent. Its rotating blades knock against the cage, causing the entire mechanism to quiver. He throws his tattered coat to the floor and launches himself in the sour sheets of the bed. A small insect creeps on the pillow, its small, feathery legs sticking to the fabric. He blows it away with his breath. He looks over to the nightstand, his alarm clock blinks. Red numbers spell out 14:02. It's time to check his schedule.

He flips open a thin cell phone from his pant pocket. One new text message- oh, only one? He would have an easy day tomorrow. The machine beeps as he presses the buttons and opens the message. The black letters glare against the white. It reads: 187 Main Street. 17:15:43.

He would sleep in late that morning.

…

A tiny woman pads around the flat. Her bare feet stick to the cool floor, gently thudding as she paces. She turns and notices Renji, sitting up in bed and glaring at her. "What?" she says.

He growls. "Rukia."

"What?!"

"Stop with the B and E. Knock."

She dismisses his words. "My brother misses you, you know? Why don't you come visit? He's even given you light duty and everything. It's the perfect time."

"Forget it. I don't want to see that bastard," he falls back onto the bedding.

"Renji!"

His arm raises and turns towards her. "Don't be so stupid to think that a slow day has anything to do with favoritism. There's no way Captain is in any way- even in the least bit -sentimental."

"That's not true," she pouts. "He might really like you… I think."

He lifts a brow, "So what're you really doing here, Ruk?"

"Someone's gonna kick the bucket at a wedding this afternoon. I need a short-notice date." Her tiny hand gestures to the right. Next to him, a wrapped suit is laid on a chair. "Change into it." His face scrunches. "Renji, don't you want to see all those sexy bride's mates? You really don't want to miss out on that, do you?"

"Bride's mates," he murmurs with his head in the gutter.

"Yeah," she smiles. "Now change. You have any idea how hard it is to find a suit your size in Japan? You're such a huge oaf."

"Bride's mates," he repeats, walking to the bathroom.

"Be quick. We gotta get going."

He pokes his head out, "When's the estimated time of death?"

She scrolls through her cell phone, "Ah… that would be at," she squints at the bright screen, "13:45:52."

He peeks at his alarm clock. It's almost noon. "Gonna be tight," he says before retreating back into the bathroom.

…

The wedding wasn't hard to find. It was outdoor and over-the-top. Strings of flowers and red, lucky lanterns were rung from smooth pillars. Renji pointed, "Fire hazard," he says and Rukia nods.

Her slim fingers jab towards the buffet table. Dainty, silver skewers are lined around a boiling fondue. "Murder weapon," she mumbles.

"You have such a gruesome mind." He looks around again and motions to an ice sculpture. It's freezing peeks jut into the beak of a bird. "Pointy," he says as small drops leak down its sides. It was a hot afternoon. Rukia watches the sweating ice form a tiny puddle around the sculpture. It leaks onto the glassy patio.

"Bet ya someone does a face plant right into it. Icicle through the forehead," she says.

Renji's nose wrinkles, "I hope not." He motions ahead of himself with his chin. "Bride's mates," he says, abandoning Rukia for the tightly clad women.

"Hey!" she whines. "You're supposed to be my pretend-fiancé!" She watches as the tall, red haired man inserts himself into the throng of ladies. "Whatever."

A young lady places her hand over Renji's arm. "So you're from the groom's side then?" she asks with a pleasant voice.

"Yeah," Renji says. "Distant cousin."

"Family friend."

"Free bar?" he asks and she nods. Well in that case, "Can I get you a drink?"

…

The stall is small.

The young lady reaches down and tugs on Renji's belt, sliding his trousers down his thighs. Her name was Diana, or maybe Dahlia. He couldn't remember, so he'd called her Dee. "Do you have skin?" she asks.

"Wouldn't come to a wedding without it," he says, his mouth covering hers.

Rukia wanders around outside and glances at her watch. In fifteen minutes, someone was going to die, and she had no idea where her big friend had gone. She made a mental note to never actually, seriously, ever go on a real date with him- not that she ever would.

Two thin legs are wrapped around his bare waist as they move together. One of his hands rested on her hip and the other reached up over the stall. Her small back was nestled into the crook of the corner. Her sweating skin was sliding up and down the metal walls as she panted encouraging words to Renji.

Rukia stepped cautiously around the growing puddle of blood, her heels clinking against the patio. She had only recently ripped the pair of Manolo Blahniks off a corpse she had reaped; and would not even entertain the idea of ruining them.

Guests ran around, screaming and teary, dialing on cell phones. The mother of the deceased bride was raving. She was going to sue the church, or so she said. The father stood, gaping and awestruck. His face completely changed from the smiling picture only moments ago; when he'd heard his daughter say, 'this is the happiest day of my life.' Those were her last words before the trellis collapsed onto her, driving a thick splinter into her temple and inevitably killing her.

Apparently the weight of the large, decorative cross had caused it to bend. It was the mother who insisted it be placed there; it was a Christian wedding after all, and she'd be damned if people didn't know it. Oh, they'll know all right. She'd made sure of that.

'Dee' panted, her body lax against Renji's. "Do you hear screaming?" she asks. Renji pulls up his pants and she pulls down her skirt.

He grinned, "Yeah," he says. "It sounds like someone died out there."

…

It wasn't until a few minutes past five that they arrived back at Renji's stolen flat, bride ghost in tow. "That was a disaster," Rukia hissed. "I'll never be able to show my face there again!" She'd been exposed as a wedding crasher. 'Just who're you related too?' she was asked by the bride's aunt Carol after she offered her condolences. It was a stupid answer, but she'd told dear aunt Carol, 'the priest.' Of course this brought up questions and suspicion. Soon enough the raving mother was throwing silver skewers.

"You don't go to church anyway," Renji offered.

"This place is disgusting," it was the bride who spoke. "Take me back! I want to see my husband!"

"He's not your husband anymore," Renji says. "Til death do you part, remember?" The bride began to bawl.

Rukia sucked on her teeth. "This is a fucking disaster. A grand fucking disaster."

"I want to be buried in my dress," the bride whined. "I want you to go and tell my mother that."

"I can't," Rukia says. "Your mother is convinced I should be fried in oil." Oh, yes. She'd really said that back at the wedding, her hand cuddling silver skewers.

"I wonder what they're going to do with your head," Renji says. "You know, since there's that big 'ol stick in it. I guess you won't be having a open casket funeral."

The bride blinked. "My funeral?" Her brow rose in thoughtfulness. "I want to go to my funeral. I'm staying until then. I want to see my husband's reaction."

"Ex-husband," he says.

"Oh no. No. No. No!" Rukia says quickly. "You are not going to your funeral. You've got to pass over."

"I refuse. I have unfinished business."

"I really hate forcing spirits to leave," Rukia says. "It's much nicer if you'd just pass on peacefully."

"I will not!"

Rukia rubbed her eyes. "Oh boy," Renji says. "Look, Ruk I've got a reap in like," he glances at the clock, "less than an hour. So I've-" She waves a small hand in his direction. "Yeah, uh, well… good luck with her." The bride crosses her arms and frowns tightly.

…

He walks alone, his red hair flying. He makes his way down Main Street, a quick check of the time and his feet progress faster. Traffic is light, but the neighborhood is noisy. Children run around, pattering on the streets and through the houses. And then the neighborhood grows painfully familiar. 187 Main Street. The Kurosaki Clinic.

His mouth pulls into a frown. But perhaps this isn't too much of a surprise. It is sort of a hospital after all. People may die here; although, he still felt uneasy. Peaceful and natural deaths were not usually assigned to him. He was stationed as active, meaning he typically dealt with murders, freak accidents and suicide.

He opened up the text message, reconfirming the address. Yup, right spot. Two minutes until show time and then that young, Japanese boy comes around the corner, his unmistakable hair shivering in the breeze. He stops in front of a tall machine, his eyes scanning through its glass door and examining its contents. Shimmering coins dance through his fingers.

Renji scans the area again, trying to pinpoint that person; the one who is about to die. He watches the three young kids playing jump rope. Would the girl trip and crack her skull? Would the older boy wrap the rope around her tiny throat and strangle her? Would a car skid around the corner and squish one? He looks up into the sky. Would someone jump off the building? He hears someone cursing ahead of him. He brings his gaze down.

"Damn machine," the boy grumbles. Renji watches as the boy kicks the whirring, drink-dispensing hunk of technology, and it's suddenly clear who is about to die. The machine dips from the wall. Oh yeah, this is it. Renji strides quickly toward the impending accident.

Ichigo pounds the return button violently and the machine rocks. A shadow pools around his feet. "Whatever," he grumbles and begins to turn. A sudden touch of metal presses against his shoulder, it's so heavy and unexpected. His brows bend in confusion.

A loud noise feels like a shot through his ears. His bone-encased brain is crushed and spills onto the walkway. His ribs rip through his tendinus fibers and pierce through his abdomen, only to be shattered against the unwavering weight of the vending machine. The instant passes. He cannot move. His body does not listen to his brain, which is actually, now, just a pile goop.

He doesn't feel the thick, dark blood running out of him, draining and paling his skin. How does he know this? He cannot see it, cannot feel it, but he knows that he's under the heavy machine. He's been fucking steam pressed against the sidewalk.

Footsteps come toward him. Someone is standing just above him. The man squats and runs his long fingers against the boy's hand- the only intact limb. The pale hand is almost severed from the arm trapped under the tipped machine. And now Ichigo is standing next to Renji, looking at his gory corpse oozing from under the fallen mechanism.

"T-that's me?" Ichigo's voice wavers. His throat is dry and his mouth is hot and sticky. A confused noise fumbles from his lips. "No, no. That's not- what… what's…" his voice fades into the wind.

"Sorry, kid."

Ichigo shakes his head. "I- I'm dead?! How is-? You! You're that guy who was trashed by the bus! What're you-?! I-! Did you kill me?!"

"No," Renji says. "The vending machine fell on you."

"Oh." Ichigo frowns. "But you-!"

"I'm a shinigami. Death in the flesh," Renji says, patting his stomach. "And I don't decide when people die. I'm just around when it happens."

"…So I'm really dead?"

"Yes."

"That's not fair!" Ichigo screams, his temper revealing itself. "I'm only fifteen! I haven't done anything yet! I- I have my whole life to live!"

"Sorry, kid, that's just the way it goes."

"Bullshit! Why did it have to be me?"

Renji let out a long breath, "Don't know. It just was."

"Can't you," Ichigo's mind reeled, "can't you take some old guy instead?" Renji's head shook. "No! This can't be real. I can't be dead!" Renji offered a small smile. "What a stupid way to go!" The boy's eyes squeezed together. A painful feeling swept over his body.

"Come on," Renji says. "Let's go."

…

He walks up the street, no longer alone. Beside him is an orange haired ghost, who says, "You're dead?" And Renji nods. Yes, he was also dead. Ichigo's mouth presses together. "So what happens to me now?"

"Either you pass on or we have a soul funeral."

"Soul funeral?"

"I send you to a soul society," he clarifies. He reads the boy's demanding stare. "It's like… a workplace… for shinigami. We get our orders from there. So, if you don't pass on… you go there and wait. For normal souls, I suppose it's like a big, boring waiting room."

"What would I wait for?"

"To be reincarnated," Renji says. "You go into another body to die, and perhaps actually pass on that time."

"Pass on to where?"

Renji smiles, "I have no fucking clue."

Ichigo pauses. "How do I pass on?"

"…When you're ready. It'll come for ya," he says. "And you'll follow it and go wherever you'll go."

"And you're here to…?"

"Wait with you," he smiles. "Nobody should have to die alone; it's shinigami policy."

2. Third Party Rip off

Ichigo shuts his eyes. After a few seconds, he reopens them. "Damn," he says and shuts them again. Renji looks over at the boy, watching as he opens his eyes again.

"What're you doing?" Renji calls from across the room. They're back at his stolen flat. Ichigo shuts his eyes again and Rukia hobbles into the room.

"I sprained my ankle," she whines.

Ichigo opens up his eyes. "Damn," he says again.

"You're ankle's fine," Renji says and then points to Ichigo. "And what the hell are you doing?" The boy's eyes shift onto Renji and then back onto the floor. He shuts them again, mumbling about how when he opens them this time, for sure, he'll wake up back in bed. "Quack," Renji says, swatting the air with his hand dismissively.

"Renji," Rukia says, sitting next to him on the couch. "Massage my feet." He sighs and drags her tiny ankles onto his lap.

"Okay," Ichigo whispers. "This time for sure."

"I didn't get any messages from the Captain yet," Renji says, working his fingers deftly around her feet.

"Damn," Ichigo whispers to himself.

"Really? I'm surprised. Brother's usually quite regular when it comes to work," the words tumble out of her mouth.

"Regular is-" Renji began. She wiggles her toes.

"Pull on my toes," she says. "I like that."

"Oh. Alright," he grips onto her second toe and tugs it gently. "Anyway, regular is an understatement. He's a total hardass and you know it."

"Well, maybe you could loosen him up some," she smiles, digging her heels playfully into his leg.

"Damn," Ichigo whispers again.

"Ew," Renji says. "Seriously, no." Something glints on Rukia's finger. "When'd you get that?" he asks, eyeing the platinum band around her center finger. Her violent eyes glance down to admire the reflective, square rock, which is planted on the band.

"I took it from the bride," she says simply. "Isn't it pretty?"

"Yeah," Renji says. "It looks expensive. You gonna pawn it?"

Ichigo's face suddenly appears over Rukia's narrow shoulder. "That's horrible," he says. "You stole that from a dead body, didn't you?" Rukia's hand curls defensively.

"Well she wasn't using it," she whines.

"That doesn't matter!" Ichigo says. "It's not yours! It belongs to her family… or maybe to the groom. I don't really know how that works… but still! I know you're not supposed to have it."

"Ichigo," Renji says. "Just relax. It's not like shinigami get paid for the great service we provide. We do everything free of charge." He looks at his small co-worker. "We don't even get benefits… and I wouldn't mind free dental care. That'd be bloody nice." Rukia nods.

"So what?" Ichigo shouts. "If you can't afford it, then get a fucking job!"

Renji scratches his head, "Never mind you. If I got a job I wouldn't be able to watch the late show every night."

"You lazy son of a-! What the hell is wrong with you?" Blood rushes into Ichigo's face. "What kinda God steals from mortals?"

Rukia laughs. "We were mortal too," she says, "once. But then we died."

"That doesn't really make sense," Ichigo says.

"Sure it does," she smiles, "I died in 1938 via plane crash. My soul is on contract for an indefinite amount of time. Basically, until I pass over, I have to stay here and collect the souls of the dearly departed." She was smiling brightly and it made Ichigo uneasy. "That would be you."

"I don't get it. Why didn't you have to go to this soul society?" the boy asks.

"Because," she smiles sadly, "someone's contract was up and I was called to replace it." There was a hint of forlorn in her eyes and Ichigo broke the contact. He gestured rudely at Renji, whose eyes were stuck on the TV.

"How'd he die?" he asks.

"Renji?" Rukia says. "He jumped off a bridge in 1962." It seemed that amongst the dead, no one was quite modest about his or her own death. It was just another conversation starter. Another badge on your chest and Ichigo, he'd been smushed under a vending machine. There was no shame in that. Not a damn thing.

"He," Ichigo stammered. "Renji- you… killed yourself?" The man's lip pulled to the side.

"Not really," he says, still focused on the screen.

"You had to have known," Rukia points out, "that you wouldn't survive a dive off the Royal Gorge bridge." She grins with a knowing look.

Renji breathes out his nose. "No, I didn't know that," he says. "I was high." Rukia bursts out into a steady laughter. She never tired of hearing about Renji's ecstatic plunge into doom.

Renji shrugged and switched the channel. Ichigo sat back on his heels. He was going to close his eyes and this time, when he opened them, he would not still be in the company of two, very insane shinigami.

…

"You don't have to sleep on the floor," he says. He sits back on his palms, looking at Ichigo. A lopsided smile plays at his lips. His red hair flows down to his waist, brushing at his skin. He lifted one dark, decorated brow.

Ichigo's eyes bugged. He hadn't meant to stare, but the man was an impressive sight. The boy's sheepish eyes studied Renji's stomach. It formed into six mounds, like rippled armor with deep tribal markings. It filled the boy with confusion to be looking at another man thusly.

"Seriously," Renji says, still grinning. Ichigo's gaze lifted to the man's mouth. His lips were shaped with soft, generous curves. The boy watched intently as they moved once more, "there's room on the bed for three." Just then Rukia's scrawny arm came around Renji's waist. She mumbled and inched closer, her mouth only a breath away from Renji's hip.

"No," Ichigo stammered, a flush coloring his cheeks. "I don't think so."

"Well, if you change you're mind," the man says, lowering himself next to Rukia. And Ichigo is positive that he will not change his mind. In the corner of the room, there's this rusty, old fan. It's blowing around the warm air of the flat. Without even thinking about it, Ichigo's breathing in the air. His lungs expand and detract. The oxygen is taken into the blood and fuels his heart. In a moment, it'll begin to beat again.

He stretches an arm toward the shaking fan. Lifting his palm onto its dust covered cage. He doesn't notice, but he feels the wind. It blows between his strands of hair and once again, the soft tresses bend.

The idea is too similar to Dead Like Me.

I know.

But it was unintentional.

Review?