Among the photos was this one of my brother and some neighborhood friends. First of all I was struck by the fact that all the boys had guns, pointing them at each other, wielding them so carelessly. So I asked my brother (who doesn't seem to have a gun) to write the story of this picture. It speaks volumes.
Here's his story:
Shoot 'Em Up
“Cheater!"
The word made him stop and turn; a dangerous
look came across his face.
“What did you call me?”
“I shot you and you didn't fall.”
“What did you call me?”
“You’re supposed to fall when you get shot."
By now he was an arm’s length away. His
right hand drew back behind his right ear and paused for a much longer time
than was expected, calculating the exact target that would inflict the maximum
damage.
A normal response would have been to run.
The older, larger boy was a well-known bully who was quick to violence
against weaker boys. At least duck, or try to deflect the impending blow.
The collision of bone and flesh landed between
the right eye and the temple causing the head and neck to jerk violently back
and right, and the body to crumple to the ground.
“You missed me, you little shit."
The fallout was immediate and ruthless:
“Why did you do that, Tommy?”
“You’re a bully."
“If you want to pick on someone, pick on someone
your own size."
Then came the parents: parental outrage, parental comfort, parental shame.
The victim became hero and the victor solidified
his reign as pariah.
A momentary, light affliction for an eternal
weight of glory.
Thanks, Bro!
