You know in the holos, when the good guy finally catches up with the bad guy and winds up to deliver a solid blow right to the bad guy’s kisser? You know what they never show in those movies? How much belting the bad guy hurts.
That was the first thing I noticed after I sent my brother reeling backwards. Dadgum, my fist stung like it had been slammed in the door of dad’s hovercar.
“What the heck was that for, John?” my brother screamed, blood trickling from his mouth, trying to act all innocent-like.
“You know perfectly well, James!” I screamed back, trying to ignore the pain in my hand.
“Like spit, I do! I’m not some Tellurian mind-reader.”
I scowled at him, as if the look could bore a hole through his head. “Mary,” I said.
He rolled his eyes. “You’re not hung up about that, are ya? What’s the big deal?”
I lunged for him, but didn’t catch him off guard, like the first time. He blocked my jab, but I caught him with my left hook. He stumbled to the ground, and now both my fists hurt like the dickens.
Wonderful story, Joe. It reminds me of another one about the special relationship of brothers, from a recent (March 2013) issue of First Things: "The Brilliantine Coattails of Lust". (If you can't see it because of the pay wall, let me know and I'll send it to you.)
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