#bayoubound

distance, in their family, has always been a necessary evil. long before the war, the fallout, the deaths of their parents, joe'd known it was the only way for them to coexist. arm's length, and a bit further. keep his baby brother out of trouble and avoid wringin' his neck when he got into it. means that this little venture of his — a quick ride through the swamps to a home he wasn't welcome in — was as much a waste of jack's time as it was his.

" because you ain't ever known a damn thing about how to help nobody but yourself. " stern, his voice is a snap of teeth on the subject, his back all the attention he'll spare while hands stay busy oiling the barrel of a shotgun what hadn't seen a second of action in decades. what he'd wanted out of a will that begged them to get along. let jack have the land.. the headaches that came with keeping it up. let him have the house for a family that stopped growing and turned out more pleasant than expected. he'd never liked it much growing up, anyways.

" and i don't remember askin' for no damn help neither, " an addition when the rag he's tossed stops its momentum and, finally, joe pivots. pins that piss poor attempt at sympathy with a boot to the neck, demanding it die off.

" what you think i'm out here for, jack ? " one of many safe houses, he'll see this one in cinders before he lets these visits become more regular. disappear out there into the bayou and let jack play with the gators if he wanted to find him again. extend some sad excuse of an olive branch that joe is too skilled not to lop off at the source. " if i wanted to be playin' house, i'd be playin' it ! " get himself a pretty wife and have a gaggle of youngins all his own. that hadn't ever been his hand to bet.

theirs is one of many, many standoffs. where he works his jaw tight and imagines @anthologicals ' nose at a familiar, crooked angle. that he doesn't swing says more about himself, these days, than any viable grab for acceptance. or forgiveness.

nothin' good showed up unannounced in these parts. fireflies went quiet hours ago and, even before he'd heard the first of the shots fired, he'd known something was off. let the pieces fall into place over a can open and ignored — dinner could wait. the contents would be as cold later as they were now, shoved to the far side of a table that also scooted back as he stood. retrieved the machete from beside the dying stove.. his brother got up to some stupid shit from time to time, but at this hour ?

it's the headlights that do it at first. a wide, yawning beam that bleeds through the cattails and the river moss in an eerie glow while the fog sits thick. joe's to his waist in his waders, quiet while the croak of bullfrogs begins fading off and boots on the ground turn what had been a mostly peaceful evening into a scene.

they come. they go. dark get-ups, their faces covered and their helmets low, they need better training. reporting to the same figure again and again and again, they've sold their leader to a wolf whose narrowed gaze takes roster of his arsenal. submachine gun.. grenade belt. the walkie on his chest lights up and in the bustle, the other vehicles loading up, leaving him to bring in the rear, joe'd moved.

and now..

now he thinks he should've gagged him.