WRITINGS CARTOONS ANIMATION and VIDEO BACK	The Last House by: Luke Meeken Obadiah made his way to the next house, his briefcase full of inspirational pamphlets hanging unenthusiastically at the end of his arm. He lifted his hand and attempted to ring the doorbell, failing horribly as a result of there not being one to ring. A few curt raps on the door would have to suffice. The door swung open slowly, and Obadiah was confronted with a smell the likes of which his nostrils had nary felt before. The odor had all the potency of a liter of Vapo-rub™ applied nasally with a caulking gun. However, it lacked the quaint, antiseptic, vaguely minty odor normally associated with the product. Instead, his senses were assaulted with a highly acidic, deeply troubling odor that infiltrated the body through the nasal cavities, only to continue its devastating campaign into the tear ducts and digestive tract of the recipient. Obadiah was thoroughly immobilized, incapable of uttering even the most mundane statements of religious proselitation. Through watering eyes, he made out the diminutive figure who had answered the door. The man squinted up at Obadiah from behind his thick, dark spectacles as he brushed a few greasy black locks of hair out of his eyes. He stood uncomfortably for a moment, his eyes darting sporadically from Obadiah's face to the brief case. Wiping his hands uneasily on his soiled blue dress-shirt, the man coughed gently and said: "Sorry, mate, but whatever you're selling, I don't want any."