HUMOR

Killing Him Softly With My Bat, My Wiffle Bat

Am I my brother’s reaper? Yes I am.

by author

This is my story.

There are only four chapters:

· Can’t Draw

· Eff Word

· Fat Boy

and

· Murder

Chapter One: Can’t Draw

My brother and I started out as a team.

Long ago, right after our sister was born, Joe and I leaned over the edge of her crib and coughed on her, hoping she might catch disease and die.

We hadn’t planned on doing this. There was no premeditation. We just had that kind of connection back then. A couple little killers’ version of finishing each other’s sentences.

Meg did not die. Though, if she had, it would have given Joe and I a secret that might have kept our flawless companionship intact through what was to happen next:

Aging.

I grew older.

Which meant I became more and more of a threat to Joe. I had ideas of my own. I consumed more resources, took up more space.

I mutated into nothing more than an oldish baby in need of coughing on.

What kind of coughing?

This kind:

Picture two boys drawing at the dining room table.

“Look what I drew,” says the younger.

The elder glances. “You can’t draw.”

This wasn’t an opinion. It was a fact, the special kind that conceals a command: “You will not draw.”

I did anyway, though it’s hard work drawing when you can’t draw and when you will not draw, so I took a break.

· I followed Mother around, trying to make her laugh. She laughed at everything, but only because she had to. Mothers. Joe followed me around. “You can’t be funny, because you’re not funny.”

· I biked in circles in the driveway. Joe was there. “You can’t bike.”

· I climbed a tree to escape. He was already at the top, perched there with turkey vultures and American crows. “You can’t…