My brother is a jerk. The biggest jerk there is. He thinks he's so cool in his boots and hat, smarming at the girls and carrying on like he's the best thing since Dad or something. Well, screw him.
OK, so like I was in this building, right? Nobody was around, and it was that cool kind of abandoned place that little boys love to find and pretend they're on recon missions, right? So there I am, scouting the place out, shooting at hiding enemies with my rubber bands that totally were semi-autos, tearin' the place apart and scarin' up the pidgeons with my hoots and yells. I do this totally BOSS roll out the door, shooting as I tumble, and there he is. Fists on his hips and all, that stupid look on his face that kind of wants to be Daddy's amused stare but totally ISN'T.
"What are you doing?" he asks. I say something in return that was of course rude and brotherly, and he jumps me! So I start flailing my fists back, and we're rolling in the dust, screeching and kicking and punching and biting. He's pulling my hair, I'm kneeing him in the balls, and suddenly we're both suspended in midair by a large pair of hands, looking down at a very familiar pair of boots, and to our credit neither of us peed.
... Let me say this: Daddy has this voice. It's deep and rich and I wish I sounded half as cool as he does, and I probably never will. I'm far too, well, happy I guess. Nah, not happy; just lacking that cool sort of detachment that Dad wears like a particularly favored pair of underroos and Gerald tries to imitate and fails.
Anyway, Dad says "Boys?", only it comes out as "Booooooooooooooooooys?", starting down an octave from where it ends, twirling up in a way that sounds all amused but also says that we're in a HEAP of trouble and we'd better start talking NOW because the Punish-o-Meter has started running and the longer we delay Dad from Other Business, the higher the pain register will be.
Unfortunately, every time this happens, we go quiet. The quirks of childhood, I guess.
At least we didn't pee ourselves.
----
You should have seen their faces, dear. It was precious, and I'm sure you'd recognize that particular flavor of "oh shit I'm dead" from your own children and childhood.
The boys stared up at me, their eyes wider than their heads, mouths open. I could have sworn at least one of the two would have ended up getting a fly in their mouth, and I almost cracked a smile at the thought, but I didn't want to ruin the moment. They stared, and kept staring, and Gerude made these little gasping noises that told me that the quicker of my two was desperately trying to say something, say anything, while his brother was still in the 'durrr I'm in midair' stage.
"I..." He swallowed a few times, and by all that exists it took most of my self control not to laugh at him. He was dirty, smudged, and had several scrapes and the beginnings of a heck of a shiner on his right eye. His lip was bleeding a bit, too. He's a scrapper, that one, and you'd think his brother would learn not to tangle with him, but... no.
Gerald... well, I love that boy, but he's not as quick to pick up on subtleties as his brother. Subtleties such as 'your brother is a better scrapper than you, so you might want to consider not provoking him'. He takes after his uncle quite a bit in that regard. He also passingly resembles him, especially with the dual black eyes, bite marks on his cheeks, and a much more impressively busted lip than the one his brother is sporting. To his credit, though, there's a few strands of red hair in his hand.
He sees me spot them and waggles his fingers, trying to lose the evidence. Yes, after I've already seen it.
Children. Really.
"So, how did this come about?" I can't keep the amusement out of my voice, but like so many before them, the edge of humor only seems to terrify them more.
"Gerald said--"
"I was just--"
"Shut UP Gerald I was just playing and you had to come start--"
"All I said was--"
I drop them both to the ground, creating a blessed moment of silence. My two children have the nerve to look disgruntled at me as they massage their busted rears and egos. I don't react, of course; why give in to the terrorists, as a wise man once said? Instead of allowing myself to be provoked, I simply cross my arms and glare at them.
Right on cue, they burst out crying.
Gerude Akribastes, Gerald Akribastes, 'Sy Akribastes
Confusion (Pump Panel Reconstruction Remix - New Order
Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, BVW 565 - Johann Sebastian Bach
