"We're going to get in t-t-trouble with dad again," Ritcher says from above. His voice is trying to whisper, but given the distance, he must shout even if only slightly. "You know how dad gets when he's drunk,"

It's not like Turnus cares. He's at the bottom, with his grin and shoe-less feet and skipping gait. Turnus darts across the field. A vast stretch of flat plains, dandelions and wild grass grows here and nothing much else around the house. Past it, a shielding of elks and pine. The grass blades must feel like nothing to him. Though they itch Ritcher, who at the thought, scratches his ankles. It must be like walking on sand for Turnus, he's done it so long. Clothes were always too restraining for Turnus.

That's why dad beats him up when he doesn't wear his tie to church. Because Turnus can't help himself but not to wear it and dad can't help himself not to beat him.

It's made him calloused. His feet, that is. He struts and prances, bent over so his hand can glide between the grass. Dandelions shoot out from the line he runs through, they look like little parachuting troopers.

"He's going to catch you," Ritcher cups his hand.

"If you keep screaming, he will," Turnus screams back.

"You're louder..."He whispers beneath his breath. Ritcher braces himself against the window frame. He looks left and right.

"Don't be a chicken shit!" Turnus screams.

"J-j-jeez! Be quiet," Ritcher whispers.

He takes a deep breath and finds the gutter pipe. It looks like a grey worm. He puts both hands, hugs it. He whimpers.

"Hurry up," Turnus says. He stands by the edge of the tree line. Ritcher looks down, it makes him want to vomit. So he looks up instead, dark has only begun to encroach. There are still fireflies that roam the sky like flares. It's confusing almost, what is a star and with is a creature. The gutter pipe creaks.

"A-ah," Ritcher works his way down, squared and fidgeting as he shimmies down. Creak.

"Ah! It's coming off, it's coming off I swear!"

"I hope so. Falling would be a lot faster than waiting, hurry up!"

He doesn't know how he makes it down. He closes his eyes, puts one leg down and works his way. His ankles are scratched. He can't feel it, his legs are too cold to feel anything.

"Come on, hurry up," Turnus screams again. One of the bolts comes loose, it makes a screeching noise. So Ritcher jumps. He lands on his ass. It's only a five feet drop, but it felt like parachuting.

"I could have died, Turnus." He chases after his brother. His breath is tired already.

"Die? You were one inch off the floor."

"I could have broken my foot,"

"And hopefully it'd make you a little tougher."

"I'm tough!" Ritcher says. Turnus smiles, and they stop at the front of a shed. The door is locked, but the doors are just loose enough for the wind to blow and shake planks. Turnus puts his hand against the chains, rattles them. From behind the door, something moves.

"I'm tough..." Ritcher gets behind his brother. "I'm tough. I'm tough."

"What're you scared of?" Turnus asks.

"If dad finds out he's gonna kill us."

"You take dad too seriously. What's wrong with talking with him?" He asks. "You've got to make your own decisions one day, you know that."

"He'll kill us. He's the word of God, he'll send the flood after us."

"Yeah, the flood, uh-huh." Turnus shakes his head and kicks the chains. They rattle. There's moaning now. "Dad also thinks Jerusalem will be the landing pad for God's wrath. You shouldn't take him seriously."

"He's God's chosen!"

"Every Christian thinks they're God's chosen," Turnus says. "You need to learn the difference between a drunk and a messiah."

"What's a messiah?" The moaning increases. Ritcher yelps.

"Later..." Turnus pushes Ritcher away at the same time the footsteps behind the door approach. They're dragging, careful, gentle...somewhat...childlike."You haven't met him in a while, have you? He's gotten bigger."

"I'm scared Turnus."

"Don't tell dad, alright?" Turnus finds a key in his pocket. He reaches for the lock.

"I'm scared, Turnus." He doesn't understand the warmth dripping down his pants. Or the wet spot. And it doesn't seem like Turnus cares, so Ritcher figures why should he himself? He swears he doesn't care. Says it, over and over and over. But he can't help himself from jittering, he can't help his teeth from clattering.

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The lock falls down with a thump.

"I'm gosh!" Ritcher runs across the field. Trips. His knee bleeds, and between the urine and blood, he smells like metallic ammonia. Like rust thrown into toilet cleaner.

"Hey, take it easy!" Turnus runs after him. Ritcher is too fast, or his fear too great rather. He runs for the gutter pipe. He puts one hand up, starts rubbing and pushing his way up.

"Wait! Wait, Ritcher, wait!"

It's too late. He's halfway there. He puts one hand on a window frame.

Then the bolt comes off. A screw flies past him. His eyes are wide. The gutter pipe starts to shake and bend. The noise of steel crashing down, of destruction.

Watery trash explodes from the pipe; wet leaves, dirty water almost mucus in texture, a sprinkle of soggy pine needles. The tube is cut halfway, Ritcher rides the lower half down, all the while screaming, all the while thinking of Armageddon and Jerusalem and the fireflies and of the flood and of the fury.

This is Armageddon, isn't it?

The flood and the fury.

Then of Turnus. Briefly, as he sees his face one last time before he hits the floor.

He looks at him, almost proud. Because now, with his body falling and his head hitting the floor and the blood coming out his skull, Turnus doesn't look so tough himself too.

Turnus looks mighty scared as he riles Ritcher to stand, as he stands and then kneels and hugs Ritcher. And he doesn't look so tough when both of them look up, and the window to dad's room lights up.

Why… neither of them look so tough after all.

♣

It was hard to see with the light bearing down on him. Turnus covered his face with the sheets and lowered himself into his bed.

"What day is it?" Turnus asked.

"Tuesday. You have an appointment with your brother." Dorothy said, either tired or annoyed. She was stroking her hair.

"Weird, I just dreamt of him." Turnus yawned. "I dreamt I was him, at least. It was a bad dream."

"Dream or memory?"

"I don't know anymore," He plops his head down on the pillow. "The meeting can wait for me to get some more damn sleep."

"No, I don't think it can," she said.

All around them was the quaint interior of a very simple (boring) room, and simple (boring) was the only thing anyone could use to describe the decor. It seemed like Grandma's Grandmas' house With the vinyl laced table clothes that draped every piece of wood. From the wardrobe dresser to the desks. It was a place so antiquated that even the dust was beginning to collect dust.

The bed was big, but Turnus took every inch of it as he sprawled out with every limb extended to each corner of the bed posts. His girlfriend or just lover or just transgender novelty... sat in a chair, with the mirror in front of her and the set of makeup below her. She was working on her self, adding blush to her cheeks. He looked, not at her, but to the reflection. He touched the bruises on his face, most of them were healed save for one in the back of his ear. He poked it and flinched.

"I hate making promises."

"Then stop making them," she said.

"But then I won't get anything I want,"

"Then break them?"

"Keeping promises is the cornerstone of civilization, and I am no animal,"

"Whatever," She put on lipstick.

"You're in a mood today, aren't you?"

"I don't like these deals and secrets you're working on. They make me uncomfortable."

"You're worried I'll die?" He smiled.

"Or worse," She turned to him. They shared a moment before she retracted.

"All I have to do is save Luanne, for the moment at least. That's it. Keep her straight." He said. "I always liked her,"

She eyed him.

"Don't worry, I'm not Floyd. I don't fuck my sisters." He laughed. "And maybe like was the wrong word. Maybe it's more like I pity her and my nephew."

"Who cares if you pity her. I thought you wanted the whole family dead?" She stopped. "Or are you running away from your dream? Like you always do?"

"Oh, you are in a mood," Turnus turned to her. His eyes were narrowed, his brow lowered. She knew the face well and turned away from him, brushing her hair. Turnus walked up to her, one hand to the back of her neck and the other grabbing onto the brush. He took his time as his face approached her, letting his breath fall on her. She couldn't breathe it looked as if poisoned by his very breath.

Then, with a slow movement, he put the brush against her black hair. He went up and down in long strokes, unwinding the knots in her skull.

She smelled of coconut.

"What's got you so mad today? You're never this angsty,"

"Jezebel died. The Vicars killed her," she said. "I thought you told me they wouldn't be a problem."

"They're not, they're a convenience," He said.

"I'm scared they'll get to you through me,"

"So in the end, you're just worried about your life?"

"I can't..." She looked down. "I can't fight and no offense, you can't either. And even when you do fight, you never win."

"You were never the courageous type, were you?" He said. "You needed my push, my help, my resources to turn yourself into the person you are now. You never could do anything by yourself. And here you are - unable to even run away by yourself." His hand approached the top of her head. His face came around to direct opposite of hers, then, with one firm grasp, he clamped down on her hair. He felt the black straws stab and peek through in between his fingers. It felt like a ball in his fist, all her hair wound up. "The audacity in you to even entertain angst. To be mad at me. What right do you have?"

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry!" She cried. "I'm just scared."

"And people do stupid things when they're scared." He pulled her head back. "And even dumber things when they're mad."

"Please don't hurt me. Please,"

"They all say that, don't they?"

He tossed her head. She hit the glass, and it broke, and the blood began to fall down from the dressing window. It didn't hurt much, not really. But the sight perhaps, or her broken visage in the mirror, was enough to set her off into tears.

Or maybe she was just coming to realization - the stop at the long line of bad choices that led her here.

Turnus looked for his clothes.

"I'm doing all the hard work of planning, trying to get every piece in their right order and I can't have you undermining me at the homestead. You must understand."

She lowered her face and put her palms to her eyes. The mascara stained her arms as if she was cut across.

"Hey, hey!" Turnus looked at the mirror. His face fell, his anger too. "You said you wanted to go somewhere when this was all over, right? Germany? Japan? Remind me. What do you want?"

She nodded her head.

"Hey, I'm talking to you." He grabbed her arm. She looked away. It made his gut drop. He let her go, gently, trying to grab hold of her palm. She wouldn't allow it, as if she was allergic to his very touch.

He was a toxic man through and through. Breath and touch and attitude. Poison to her very soul. What great deterioration he caused in his presence, what great waste.

He put on his glove. It covered his tattooed hand. He fixed his tie. He looked at her in the silence of the room, where whimpers were so lonely in sound that they might as well have been screams. Where he could hear his own heartbeat in his swollen ear.

"The plan hasn't changed, Dorothy. I just need to make it work. And sometimes that means negotiations, and sometimes that means waiting. I know you're nervous, I am too if you would believe me." He said. "But you have to have a little faith. This isn't murder I'm trying to commit, it's revenge. And revenge has to be patient."

She sniffed and walked towards the window and looked out.

"I'm sorry," He said. I'm sorry.

He stepped out, lunch was waiting for him.