BROTHER BROTHER

[Worm of Despite]

Author's note: this is based on a partially-true story in which my father and his younger brother lived together in the same house. Much hilarity ensued!



Wane lamplight flickered and shone at the dark facing of the garage door, all about hiked in steep night. A Toyota pickup truck sat, tires rotted; trashbags of cans filled its bed, a tree above leaning over a fence missing pickets and its gate crashed among leaves. He laid his duffel bag down, within a muscle shirt of his favorite guitar hero, Grinning Hawk; a poster of Jett Maggenson, go-go Indian rapper, four non-descript Mason jars, three with non-descript liquid and one with an ancient powder. He opened the door, walking in the garage, it filled with pitch-black outlines of forgotten furniture with dust and trash and—he opened the second door, it always unlocked, opening to the den, the ceiling so dark it seemed to be missing; the kitchen covered in model cars and deep stains of every description, smell, and texture. The frigerator open, the dining table missing a leg; a room of windows beyond looking on an overgrown backyard, a pool dark with vines, with opaque water; no moon; the shrubs reaching 20-feet high untended. The den contained an aquarium with a dead snake, a carpet with curling edges, its colors black and the chairs at angles that had shifted from original placement, a line of vines raking a window by the entertainment system, CDs fallen by the stereo under the TV; one read, Don Henley, Actual Miles.

‘Fuck that shit,’ said Steve.

A plump, plodding pacing came down the hall to the den. Phil stood holding a nickel-plated Colt 357 magnum, his Santa Claus belly his only inviting part.

‘Brother?’

Steve glared at him.

‘They kicked me out,’ he said.

‘Dad did?’

‘Yeah.’



BROTHER BROTHER
OR
“There’s nothing like a brother!”

[Worm of Despite]

Day 1


Steve moved in the basement. There was a stereo there, a dresser, two rooms, a bed with a “marvelous middle”; around all these he decided empty beer bottles should be placed. Newspapers, stains, and other miscellanea of the non-hygienic and partially-retarded began to cluster and litter the once-pristine area as if his body held some organ that actively produced trash. Soon the bed was covered in clothes articles, the mattress missing its blanket and covers for some reason as he slept face-down fully clothed in workman’s boots. Pot plants grew in the closet as a poster of Grinning Hawk watched them grow. In the 6-CD changer was a readymade mix of fast-music both solo guitar and urban. He did not notice the brown stains on the ceiling. The water spots on the mirror. The bath-tub needing cleaning was never guitar-based or soloed about so why bother?! Slowly the basement had become a dark reflection of some festering growth or plant that waited for insects meant to die; Steve walked to the stereo, blasting up Grinning Hawk, his pelvis thrusting with the G chord; beer bottles shook, the song “Aero Driver”. And now the cat will have his due, sang the song; Will you forget the Indian? Now an F major chord. Steps came down to the basement.

Phil tossed the door wide.

‘Brother, turn that shit down.’

Steve looked at him with his failed goatee and quite pointedly said: ‘FUCK-AH-GAH!’

Come with me inside this ship

Phil had Steve’s 25-CD cylinder. Taking each disc out and snapping them in half.

‘NO!’ said Steve, gesturing fiercely.

Phil varied his breaking moves, sometimes snapping a CD against his knees; other times licking the underside of the disc and Frisbee-tossing it into a wall where it exploded into glitter; Steve was on the floor having a wild fit of the kind only an epileptic and Kabuki performer could appreciate.

‘Ho there!’ said Phil, tossing a CD behind his shoulder and moonwalking into it.

‘NAH-GOO!!’ ejaculated Steve, tackling Phil but failing to take him down; Phil head-locked him, then pushed him to his ass and gave his face a steel-toed kick; Steve grabbed his left leg, gnawing the blue jeans.

‘BROTHER NO!’ said Phil, tossing Steve sideways into a tiny closet.

With your naaaaaameeeee!!!

Steve beat against the closet door, giving both invented curses and vintage oaths. Phil stood with his back against the door and like that he fell asleep.

[Worm of Despite]

Day 2


A horn honked.

Hank hank. Hank-hank.

Steve found the closet open, crawling out, up the stairs to the den. Phil sat on a couch with crushed cushions, the TV showing several middle-aged men in cardigans with tumblers of Scotch around a car, honking its horn, laughing harder with each honk. Here, brother, Phil said, sliding yesterday’s TV dinner to Steve’s face. A Miniature Pinscher ran to the tray, licking it clean and Steve rolled about, fighting for his share. The men refilled their Scotch, bellowing as the car gave another honk.

Hank-hank.


Day 3

‘Now look here!’ said Phil, trying to imitate the accent of the men he’d seen on TV. ‘We need this backyard ready for my son’s pool party.’

Steve’s eyes took in the backyard, which had essentially returned to nature. The roots of a tree had even crept over and crushed a part of the fence.

‘Now here!’ barked Phil, slapping in Steve’s hand a grimy, rusted saw, the top of its wooden handle eaten off. The Miniature Pinscher chased game mice.

Steve began the arduous clean-up, rubbing the flat side of the saw against a wily bush, but somehow Steve got turned upside down and the more he struggled the more he got lodged in the bush.

‘E-GUHH!’ howled Steve.

‘Oh Steve!’ said Phil, slapping his forehead.


Day 42

A tree had grown through the center of the den, piercing through the roof. Steve perched on a branch, his eyes wide to take in the scant light. There was a growl in the air hearkening back to the elder days of man, of the jungle and when beasts were less kind to their masters. Phil came down the hall dragging bundles of branches. Help me, he said, and Steve followed on all fours to his bedroom, where a wall of forest, thick vines and hedges had come through the north wall. Phil hacked with his machete, grunting, leaves flying as Steve on his four legs stared. Soon he was on his hind legs, carrying pieces of the forest to the kitchen, where in a crater a burning effigy of Phil’s son had been erected.

Phil crashed to his knees before it.

‘Oh!’ he called. ‘What have I done, son, to be abandoned! Come back! Back!’

Stevie howled as Phil’s pleas escalated.

Boulders sat through sections of wall of the window room, the forest rushing out, crickets and birds intertwining speech.

‘Son! Son!’

‘Brother!’ called Steve.

Phil stood, indignant.

‘How dare you!’

He smacked Steve over the face.

‘You ruined the séance!’

Steve lay on his back, fighting his brother off with all fours.

[Worm of Despite]

Day 59

The TV showed two towers. One was smoking.

‘What is it!’ said Steve, sitting with his feet under him.

Phil crouched at the TV with a magnifying glass. ‘I’m not sure.’

Eventually both towers fell, a plume of smoke hanging over Manhattan.

‘I think a Mexican flew into a building,’ Phil said.


Day 80

Steve woke up early. It was snowing outside, and he sat cross-legged on Phil’s bed, working on his reproduction of Paul Gauguin’s 1897 painting, Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?, lightly dashing a neutral-peach color on the center male’s torso, his arms reaching upward, the idol in the background a pale blue. He dashed more white color on the bird at the old woman’s feet, her hands clasping her head; the mountain far-off done. It was nearly as vibrant as he had seen it in the Boston Museum. It was perfect.

Phil walked in.

‘Is that your Gauguin painting, brother?’

‘It’s a facsimile, brother,’ said Steve.

‘Do you think you’re smarter than me?’

Phil took the painting, frame and all, and slammed it through Steve’s head. The canvas hung neatly around his neck.

‘Now you look like a true genius, brother. Really though; you’re about as smart as a brass asshole.’

He shoved Steve in the face.

[Worm of Despite]

Day 81

Steve decided to go on a date. He checked the astrological reckonings and made sure they were right. He threw a rock at the constellation Leo. Later Steve brought the woman to Phil’s house; Phil welcomed her in, a young woman in a black burqa and veil, covered head to toe.

Steve sat with her on the couch and Phil brought two drinks, sampling each.

‘This one has less fizz, brother,’ he said, handing it to Steve. He did not give the woman a drink.

‘So, where are you from?’ asked Phil, rubbing his beard-tee.

She did not answer. Steve sipped uncomfortably.

‘Ugh. What is this brother?’

‘It’s Dr. Pebs, brother. It’s a non-alcoholic rice wine with non-sugar substitutes.’

They all sat in awkward silence.

‘I have to work tomorrow,’ said Steve.

More silence.

‘What do you think of those TRADE TOWERS?’

More silence.

‘You know, someone flew into them. New York, New York.’

Steve sipped.

Phil got up to the stereo and put on “Dirty Laundry”, by Don Henley. He started bending his knees to the groove as if riding an invisible surfboard. He took a swig of Pebs, shimmying around the tree in the den then climbed on a low, giant branch, rocking it up and down. The burqa woman stood, startled. Steve sipped, Phil adding lyrics to Henley’s song.

Don’t wanna be—

The branch shattered, the burqa woman fleeing.

Her robe caught on a table corner, ripping free to reveal a young, naked Mexican man.

‘NO!’ Steve howled, the Mexican scrambling down the hall.

‘MEXICAN! TOWER KILLER!’

The three scrambled, screaming, into Phil’s bed, becoming a ball of man-limbs and naked flesh. The bed broke, they rolling into the hall, into another room, becoming more entangled and confused. Soon they were sweating, panting. Strange things began to happen. Phil clambered over Steve’s back, pulling at his legs, the Mexican pinned crotch-to-crotch with Steve, who pushed up into Phil’s crotch. Gasping and heaving. Steve’s tongue accidentally slipped into the Mexican’s mouth. Phil got off of Steve and they switched positions. They tried it sideways, then forwards—even backwards. And as they lay on their backs, spent and covered in perspiration, Phil quietly read Where the Red Fern Grows.

When they woke there was a dollop of hot yogurt all over the Mexican’s back, and no one could tell where it came from.

[Worm of Despite]

Day 88

The TV showed a wiry man with black, matted hair climbing the back of a giant red robot.

‘What is it!’ Steve quacked.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Phil, squatting with his magnifying glass. The black-headed man rested on the small of the machine’s back, weeping and covered in rain. Howard Shore’s music swelled; For Zion’s sake, the TV said; will not rest.

A knock came at the door.

‘Ooh-gah?’ emoted Steve, twisting his neck at the sound.

Phil rolled to the door, swinging it wide.

‘Hey.’

‘Son! My only son!’

Phil ushered his only son, David, into the den. David stood quietly nervous, examining the peculiarities and oddities flanking every side of him. The black-haired man on TV climbed onto the machine’s shoulder.

‘What’s that?’

‘Nothing!’ Phil said, turning the TV off.

David finally noticed Steve, whose shirt perfectly blended with the couch.

‘Oh. Hey Steve. I thought you were in Milwaukee.’

Steve didn’t answer that one; merely raised his beer can in greeting.

‘SO,’ Phil barked, ‘what brings you here?’

‘Oh yeah. Hey, dad. I was just wondering. Have you seen a game called Final Fantasy VII? It’s in a triangular box. For the PC.’

‘Final Fantasy?!’

‘Yeah. This white, triangular box. It might be in my room.’

‘Your room!’ said Phil, his hands shaking. ‘Son! Your room is fixed! Come—come look!’

David followed Phil to the old room. Nothing was as he remembered; just a mattress with a pile of clothes on top.

‘Where’s the furniture, dad?’

‘What?’

‘All my old furniture.’

‘Oh.’

‘I have a TV. Carpet. The N64. Where—’

Phil suddenly threw a burlap bag over David and tossed him in a closet. ‘Son! My only son,’ said Phil and returned to the den.

Steve had turned the TV on.

A young man in a regal black uniform was reading poetry to a background of expanding ocean and fish ever traveling onward, their size increasing, the lone guest transparently faded over all this, asking if it were real; is this real; this real; rea

[Worm of Despite]

Day 90

A Swanson’s family dinner turned in the microwave. Phil yanked it out and took it to David’s closet, sliding it under the door.


Day 148

The tree in the den was leafless, finally rotted and threatening to fall. Phil ate chips under the chimney.

Steve was in Phil’s room, going over his old duffel bag. He carefully removed the three jars of liquid and the one containing powder.

The man on the screen was reading poetry over a tone-poem. The audience laughed at the irony, the electric board letting them know to laugh.

Steve poured the powder on top of the bed.

The man on the screen looked at the audience. They grew silent. He climbed through the screen. Phil munched a potato-skin, the TV host walking to David’s room, opening the closet; he opened the burlap sack, David gray and eyes black; the host leaned to his mouth, speaking; speaking; his image entering David’s body. David stood.

He drifted down the hall by Phil’s room.

Inside, Steve poured all the jars of liquid on the powder mess.

It contacted.

The hall; the bedrooms

Exploded.

Wood chips, dirt, paneling; a cloud of asbestos; a rush of debris exited the windows, wall flying in stone chunks to the front yard, Steve’s body arcing neatly in space; David’s image towering off into the mountains, rising.

[Cambo]

I loved this, man. I mean, I sure didn't "get" some of it, but I loved it all the same. Painfully exquisite, yet concise character observations, mixed with- and this is a compliment- sheer weirdness. The bit with the burqa clad Mexican was my favourite: "MEXICAN! TOWER KILLER!" That line made me laugh for a good five minutes.

[Worm of Despite]

Day 148.5

Phil walked around the broken ruins of his home’s west wing, it little more than a strip of foundation facing air and ringed by detritus, fiberglass, insulation and a choking smell of sulphur.

The tree in the den groaned, falling over, the den pitching forward like a tent and collapsing.

All that was left was the staircase to the basement.

Phil sat on a step and resumed eating chips.


Mary Williams, combined mother to Phil and Steve, pulled up the driveway to the missing house.

She laid down a basket of clothes.

‘Phillip, your clothes are here,’ she said. ‘I washed them.’

She walked around broken bits to see Phil sitting against the basement door.

‘Phil! I washed your clothes.’

‘Okay ma,’ he said, biting a chip in half.


Day 151

J. Hugh, father to Steve and Phil, walked among the home’s wreckage. He wore a dinner jacket, pin-stripped slacks and hushpuppy sneakers that shone lustily in the sun.

He walked to the edge of the basement stairs, sipping a glass of Scotch and laughing heartily: ‘I knew this would happen!’ he said.

Phil dropped the bag of chips.

‘I’m going to make two predictions,’ said J. Hugh. ‘Two. One; I knew this would happen. Two; you got two problems: beer—and pills.’

He took a drink of Scotch and disappeared.

[Worm of Despite]

Day 189

When Steve reappeared, he returned with his friend Fleawood. The two were in a pickup truck made entirely of marijuana. The engine, interior, exterior, frame, radio and even dashboard were made of pot covered in paper, the glove compartment sporting two oxygen masks that they used to inhale the cannabis, the truck leaving an 80 foot tower of smoke as it slowly burned and turned a stop sign.

It would burn up to nothing in 2 hours.

The car rolled up Phil’s driveway, the two men falling out, gasping for breath. Fleawood grabbed his heart and fell again.

‘Brother?’ Steve asked.

‘That’s not your brother,’ said Phil, walking forward with a tire iron.

Steve stood, assuming combat stance.

Phil struck him in the face with the iron.

Steve fell over Fleawood’s body. Phil searched Steve’s side-pocket, finding a CD, and broke it in half.

[Worm of Despite]

Day 245

Steve woke.

The basement ceiling stared down at him.

Phil sat in the corner playing an odd video game that resembled Pong, Super Mario and Picross, each respective variant of those games rotating differently on the screen yet somehow Phil was able to play them with lazy ease.

Steve tried to move.

‘It’s no use, brother,’ said Phil, not turning. ‘I’ve fused your fibers to the couch.’

‘Just let me go!’ said Steve. ‘I’ll go back to Milwaukee.’

‘Milwaukee was attacked by Mexicans, brother.’

The windows outside showed leaves rattling, wind rasping in the dusky twilight.

‘A storm coming, brother. A storm to take us all.’

John Madden appeared in the left corner of the game, commentating.

‘Where’s Fleawood?’ asked Steve.

‘Let’s just say Fleawood is Deadwood now.’

There was silence.

‘Father came. I saw father.’

‘What?!’ blurted Steve.

‘Yes. I saw him.’

‘Was he wearing a cardigan?’ asked Steve.

‘No. He had on hushpuppies.’

‘NO! NO!! BROTHER! We have to leave!!’

Thunder called down.

Rain came, slipping in cracks in the basement.

‘No brother. David’s gone. Dad doesn’t need us. Let’s just go back to nature.’

‘But I have so many things to do!’ said Steve.

‘Like what?! Reproduce Gauguin!? Copy another man’s life?!’

‘It’s important work!’

Water collected on the floor, sloshing.

‘NO! All you are is a reflection of everything else, and when you do something you destroy it!’

‘Oh yeah?’ said Steve ‘YEAH?’

‘YEAH!’

‘At least my wife didn’t divorce me for lying on the couch!’

‘Yours is TOO LAZY to divorce you, Steve, so she just lives in ADULTERY!’

‘I DIDN’T HAVE THREE HEART ATTACKS!!’

‘I DIDN’T RUIN MY LIVER!!’

‘I STILL HAVE MY LIVER!’ spat Steve.

‘Yeah, OK,’ said Phil, mocking.

‘OK.’

‘YEAH. UH. OK.’

‘Fuck fucking.’

‘Go live in a computer.’

‘Fucking fuck ah fuck.’

‘Fuck ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. AH.’

‘Hey. Here’s you: UHHHHHH.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘No, really. THIS IS YOU: UHHHHHHH.’

Phil stood up and put some potato salad in his mouth.

‘Here’s you!’ he said, opening his mouth.

‘EW GROSS!’ yelled Steve, trying to get away.

John Madden laughed.

Soon they were both on the couch, potatoes everywhere. Water picked the furniture up, lifting it out the window, spilling in a deluge over the front yard and into the street; Phil got up, Steve free, who quickly bulldozed the ditch with his face. A truck fishtailed and hydroplaned into Phil, but he jumped over it, the story not quite over yet. Both men wrestled in the manner they preferred.

The truck honked.


Day 246

Hank hank. Hank.
Hank hank hank.
Hank.

[Worm of Despite]

Day 247

Phil tried to rebuild the house, but he couldn’t get 2x4s to stand, and the concept of nails was alien to Steve. Together they seemed capable of less and less as the hours wore on; Steve complained of numbness in his fingerprints. They sat among the ruins, eventually deciding to build a haunted spooky house.

Day 248

‘Spoke house!’ yelled Steve. ‘Spook house.’

He was wearing an upside down sweater which was also reversed backwards. His eyes were big from huffing ethylene.

‘Shut the fuck up!’ yelled Phil and stabbed him in the face with a high-traction shoe.


Day 251

Wind spoke in brisk syllables outside. They tried to assemble the spook-house, water lying on the floor; their hands were numb. Wood planks dropped; David, the wind howled; David; it whispered. My son, said Phil; wood falling to water. They knelt and quivered.

‘I can’t—can’t build it!’ said Phil.

‘Hands. Brother. My hands.’

Water dripped; mice scurried; various critters.

The wind—

Sound died.

Darkness came.

‘But the spook-spook, brother,’ Steve said.

‘I know,’ said Phil, resting a spicy meat-hook on Steve’s head.

David—wind.

‘It’s over, brother,’ said Phil.

They huddled together in the bath of fetid water, encasing themselves slowly; their forms blurring; over;

Phil leaned softly to Steve’s ear.

Whispering:

‘Brother—there’s nothing—like a brother; brother; nothing—’

Silence.

[Worm of Despite]

Day 2,899,244

A dinosaur stomped up to the remains of Phil and Steve.

It dug them up and consumed them, gaining their power.

‘Fuck yooooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuu!!!!’ the dinosaur yelled, stomping off into the jungle.





The End.
By David Williams

[Cambo]

Very cool. The effect on me was very similar to Salman Rushdie's The Satanic Verses, although the style was completely different. Strange, unexplainable things are happening, but they convey a very particular emotive theme. There's so much you can't comprehend, but you are left with the feeling that it's not just gibberish, that all the essential parts are there. In this story, the sense was of balls-to-the-wall dysfunction, often flaring into brutality.

One (kinda tongue in cheek) question: did the dinosaur yell "fuck you" because he absorbed the brother's hostility to each other, which was so powerful it survived all that time? Or was he just a rude, belliegerent T-Rex?

[Worm of Despite]

One (kinda tongue in cheek) question: did the dinosaur yell "fuck you" because he absorbed the brother's hostility to each other, which was so powerful it survived all that time? Or was he just a rude, belliegerent T-Rex?

I just thought it was funny. It was also my way of saying, "I'm destroying the story, this is all you get." And in a weird way, it seemed the brothers kind of loved each other near the end, just in a manner that fit with the rest of the story's strangeness. It was a mature, accepting love tied with a destructive fate that swallowed both themselves and the house.

Expect a sequel in the foreseeable future.

[Cambo]

Oh, so it was a big "fuck you" to the reader then? Very nice!

Yeah, I picked up a certain tenderness in that last passaged, actually. At the last, when everything was gone to shit, they were lying together and whispering in each other's ears, and, er, "resting spicy meat hooks" on their heads. That's brotherly love if I ever saw it.

I'll look forward to the sequel.