Welcome to the nondescript living room of Parson and Mary Smith. Their neighbor Jack has stopped by for yet another long evening of "hooch drinking and light, mutually-confessional chat." The little people are talking on the TV, but no one can make out what they are saying. So instead of watching, the Smiths and Jack take turns confessing and bemoaning their life losses--Jack, his lost love; Mary Smith, her lost innocence and Parson Smith, his lost hair-seeking in this way "to warm their inexorably cooling souls in the tepid and often moist glow of communion thus produced." Unfortunately, instead they find themselves sucked into an increasingly fraught chain of events, rife with adultery, torture, and cannibalism, all clandestinely stage managed by a group of rats who talk like CIA agents. This is the universe of Little Rooms, James Lewelling's absurd, fabular, darkly comic, and low rent Book of the Dead, a story of what can happen "when the hooch runs out."