He had two sons, John Jr. and Peter, who in his eyes were incapable of any kind of mis-anything. Both sons had the same birth defect: a strange depression in their chest, a caved in hole, like they'd been tied to a cannon -- the kind with the wheels. The youngest, Peter was a loud-mouthed little braggart who depended on big brother John to put muscle behind his weak verbal outings.
On a hot, boring day, my friend David and I were hanging out in his back yard looking for some kind of trouble to get into. We'd already done everything fun the first four days of summer vacation, and were desperate for some sort of (div)(per)(sub) -version.
In between David and his neighbor's house was a narrow walkway that David's miniature collie Laddie used to take her dumps. Either Laddie had extremely large, excited bowels packed into her tiny carcass, or the area had never been cleaned because there was enough shit back there for us to sell. I believe other dogs, maybe even other species (mountain lion?) used the walkway, as there were major tinkys that would have killed Laddie had they been hers. Although, for a dog with such a tiny head, Laddie sure had a big ass.
Well, we were sitting at the picnic table talking, when Peter (marathon mouth) came wandering over, probably to tell us what cool new thing he got or how interesting his dad was or some irritating thing. He didn't get three words out of his mouth before David jumped up and body slammed him to the ground. They wrestled around a while, and although a spectator, I did manage to sneak in a few blows of my own.
Eventually Peter got himself into a position where he was on his back, knees folded up to his sunken chest, fingers interlocked over his shins. We couldn't get to any vital parts and soon realized it was fruitless beating on him in this position... like trying to slap open a walnut or a clam.
I helped David pick apart Peter's fingers one by one, until we each had one of his wrists. With plenty of adrenaline left, we started to drag him along on his back until we ended up at the Alley of Doom. David and I glanced at each other, and without a second thought pulled our helpless prey through the shrine Laddie and her friends had built to Alpo.
If Peter wasn't kicking and crying like a baby, you would've thought we'd just dragged a month-old corpse out of the walkway. He was, as you can imagine, covered from head to toe with the disgusting extract. The smell was noxious and vile. I knew instantly this would rate extremely high on the exploit meter -- even I was retching.
Simultaneously crying and gagging (a sight everyone should witness at least once), Peter sounded like a drugged baby nursing a garden-hose. He managed to bleat out a vow of vengeance and ran home bawling. David and I, feeling as though we'd really accomplished something, gave each other the neighborhood specific, secret handshake and retired back to the picnic table.
Bored again and feeling there was more fun to be milked from our foray, I talked David into accompanying me to Peter's house to check on his status. Next to the porch lay Peter's clothes. The neighborhood flies were buzzing around them, congratulating each other on their good fortune.
A few knocks on the door brought out Peter's mom. By the look on her face I deduced she was not too happy with us. I could hear Peter crying hysterically down in the basement. Peter's mom told ME to get out of their yard. David immediately began apologizing and sucking up to her, and since their two families got along okay, I knew the burden resulting from this crime would rest on my shoulders alone.
David, now unable to make eye contact with me, lowered his head and turned away as I began to walk sheepishly toward my home. A wave of terror began to swell about me, and the sidewalk felt like a gang-plank on a pirate ship as I inched my way along. I started to realize that this "joke" was far more serious than I had previously thought and the repercussions were going to be near fatal.
I had barely made it to the property line when a blinding pain, emanating from my left ear, dropped me to my knees. It only took a nano-second for me to realize my worst fear: brother John was in the mix.
John, a good five or six years older than me (ten) and physically superior, had me pinned to the ground with in the standard position: me flat on my back, him sitting on my belly, knees across my shoulders. He began to blacken my eyes and fatten my lips immediately, and my cries for mercy fell on deaf ears.
Desperate to get out of this hold, I raised my legs up and around his neck and pulled back with all my might. This move would have usually gotten me loose, but John was far too strong for me. I was pulling futilely with every ounce of strength I could muster when John's body suddenly became ridged. He stopped punching me and turned his attention to my feet, wrapped around his neck and face.
I opened my swelling eyes to find John's face seemingly frozen in time, with his nose wrinkled and teeth gnashed. He had a dazed and confused look, as if he had just had his head bludgeoned with an ax handle. Both of us remained motionless while we pondered the situation. I had inadvertently smeared a load of poop I had collected on my shoes from Laddie's walkway all over John's face and teeth.
He was looking at me as if I had done it on purpose, like I was some sick, demented freak who would go to any length to escape his beating. He was so stunned, I think he forgot why he was there in the first place.
There he was, poo teeth and poo face, staring at me with a look of hatred and contempt. He gagged and spit, and in a moment of inspiration wiped a leaf encrusted chip on me. I screamed and spit to make him believe I was real upset myself, and that we were possibly even. He went for it and let me up, probably expecting the onslaught of a rare poo disease.
Freed, I ran into the house and brushed my teeth for quite a while. My mom, not aware of what happened, was extremely proud that her son would come home to brush his teeth after an afternoon snack.