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[...it's the chair or a lifetime of sodomy and we won't even get to choose...]
So. Apparently my Connor is verbose when distraught, provided that the distress has nothing to do with sex with Murphy, in which case he usually gets broody and stares at things a lot.
Below is my fic for the BDS Secret Easter Bunny Challenge. The fic had to be on a bridge. Extra points are awarded if I incorporate cut-offs, ballpoint pens, and Ayn Rand. The lyric was "Don't make me live for my Friday nights/drinking eight pints and getting in fights" from Jamie Cullum's 'Twentysomething', so I respected Mr. Cullum's wishes and didn't do anything of the like. Hope you like it,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kadyn.
Title: En Route
Fandom: Boondock Saints
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Troy Duffy owns, he creates, I just lie a lot.
Summary: "I thought its flickering lights were spelling out 'happy drive to Newark, boys' in Morse code, but no. It was really saying 'come back here, you fuckwit, you've got no petrol'."
-
En Route
"I have no problem with being in the middle of fucking nowhere, Murph, you understand?" said Connor, leaning back in the passenger seat. "If I were to be honest, I'd even say I enjoy being in the middle of fucking nowhere. After all, I grew up there, as did you, far away from what most people today would call," Connor made finger quotes, "'civilization'. I found it to be an idyllic and enjoyable life, though somewhat materially spartan, but I found that overall the lifestyle agreed with my nature and fostered a healthy peace of mind."
Murphy stared morosely out the windshield. "You don't have to be such a bastard about it."
"What I do have a problem with," Connor said, ignoring him, "is when we're in the middle of fucking nowhere, and it's night, and it's cold, and we have to meet our father in Newark in a few hours to leave the country so we won't die in the electric chair. But hey. Hey, Murph. Murphy."
"What."
"Guess what?"
"What."
"Guess what, Murphy."
"Fucking what, Jesus Christ, I hate it when you're like this."
"We can't go to Newark because you didn't have the sense to hotwire a car with petrol in it." Connor chuckled. Then let out a mighty war cry and lunged at Murphy. "You fucking stupid bastard! You fucker! You oaf! If they send us to the chair, I'll have them fry you before me. If we're slapped with life sentences, I'll be your fucking pimp and rent you out to large, tattooed men at rock-bottom prices!"
There were choking sounds and scuffling noises, punctuated by yelling and some clipped cursing. The stolen car rocked back and forth as if it was occupied by hormonal teenagers instead of disorganized Irishmen with homicidal tendencies. Murphy managed to get a good grip on Connor and pinned him against the steering wheel. The car horn sounded like some unholy demon shriek.
"Get a fucking grip!" Murphy yelled and wondered if Connor could hear him through the racket. He shook Connor for good measure. "Get a fucking grip, but not of my neck."
Connor let go and Murphy wasted no time in getting out of the car. He slammed the door shut and...
And nothing. They were on some bridge in the boonies without any gas and there didn't seem to be much they could do about it. There weren't any cars coming or going. To walk out of here they'd have to go through dark roads surrounded by darker forests, and fuck that. Bears might eat him.
Murphy heard the car door open and Connor's voice saying, "I actually saw a gas station, back miles and miles ago, and you still drove past it. You drove right past it and there I was, just watching it pass us by because I thought we didn't need it. I thought its flickering lights were spelling out 'happy drive to Newark, boys' in Morse code, but no. It was really saying 'come back here, you fuckwit, you've got no petrol'."
"Would you shut up and let me think?!"
"We've had enough of your kind of thinking."
"If you'd calm the fuck down, we might get out of here faster," Murphy snapped. "I think I like you better when you're killing mafia hitmen."
"It's not killing, it's cleansing," Connor said automatically, the way some people say 'bless you' after a sneeze. "It's not wrong because they're the ones who are wrong."
Automated words, picked up from their father. Learning these slogans from him, Murphy almost felt as if Il Duce was re-raising them. Starting over. Having a go at a second chance amidst extraordinary circumstances. Suddenly he and Connor were as children learning their first words, and Murphy found this parallel touching and unsettling at the same time. It was a strange joy to have his father back, but Murphy wasn't sure he liked being reshaped to his will. What kept Murphy tolerant was his dedication to their mission. The twins embraced their father's gospel out of their love for God and goodness, but there were times when Connor would say the words, or touch upon the subject, and something in his eyes would falter. Like now. There was that look as if a thought had occurred to him midsentence, and it hadn't been a very good thought at all.
"It's in the nature of a good leader," Il Duce said to Murphy one time when Connor left the room. "Bouts of utter conviction interspersed with bouts of questioning. They always question what they do, because they're the ones who truly care."
"I care," Murphy said quickly.
Il Duce paused his gun-polishing and looked at him. It was a rare sight to see his father's eyes sans sunglasses. Murphy was always surprised to see that they were the same color as his own. And that was his own nose, and Connor's frown lines, both their cheekbones, and it was as if Il Duce was made of Murphy and Connor instead of the other way around.
"I didn't say you didn't care, boy," Il Duce had said.
Back on the bridge, Murphy leaned against the thick crossbar of the bridge and stared at the water swirling below as his brother behind him demanded - to no one in particular, it seemed - to know what in fuck they were supposed to do now. He walked over to Murphy, demanded to know what Murphy was looking at, paced around a bit, sat down on the ground against the crossbar, and shut up.
A few seconds later, Connor asked, "What if someone else stops here?"
"Great. They might give us a lift."
"No, what if they stop and recognize us."
"Then we'll make them drive us to Newark at gunpoint."
"What if they don't recognize us?"
"...That'd be great, too."
"What if they're just pretending not to recognize us, and as soon as they drop us off in Newark, they send the police after us?"
"What the fuck, Connor."
"And we never get to Ireland," said Connor, not listening anymore. "It's the chair or a lifetime of sodomy and we won't even get to choose."
Ignoring Connor's last line of thought, Murphy cut in, "I guess it's gunpoint, then. Or, if you want, we can pull them out of the car and throw them off the bridge." Murphy gestured at the water below them. "Must be about ten feet to the surface, which isn't much, but I bet the current's strong."
"You're not being serious," Connor said irritably.
"Aye, 'cos I fucking hope you aren't serious either," Murphy snapped. "Fuck's sake. You're a bastard when you're wound up, d'you know?"
"...Sorry."
"Forgiven. Jesus." Pause. "So what are we going to do?"
Connor touched the back of his head to the crossbar. "We walk back to that gas station."
"But that was miles ago."
A few seconds passed.
"You go."
"You go."
"You."
"You go 'cos you've been a fucking bastard."
"You go 'cos this is all your fucking fault!"
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Fine," said Connor, getting up and walking to the car.
"There'd be no point, Connor!" Murphy called out after him. "Wave goodbye to Ireland. We're staying here in the land of the free and the home of the fucking brave!"
"We're never going to rid the world of sinners this way, you know," Connor sighed. He opened the door to the passenger side, climbed in, and slammed it shut.
The sibilant roar of rushing water filled Murphy's ears, which, Murphy supposed, was better than the roar of their minds regressing to adolescence.
+
In the time it took Murphy to smoke four cigarettes, no cars have passed. Connor was still sulking in the car with the windows rolled up, apparently too much in a mood to even share oxygen with Murphy. Another way to look at this was that it was cold outside, and Murphy was the one who was too much in a mood to get in the car where it would be at least a little bit warmer.
After the fifth cigarette, survival instincts won out over pride, and Murpy opened the driver's door and got in.
"If I'm walking, I'm shooting you, burning your body, and carrying it along with me for warmth," said Murphy. "What's that you're holding?"
"'Years later, he heard it said that children should be protected from shock,'" Connor read out, "'from their first knowledge of death, pain, or fear. But these had never scarred him; his shock came when he stood very quietly, looking into the black hole of the trunk. It was an immense betrayal - the more terrible because he could grasp what it was that had been betrayed.'"
"...Pardon?"
Connor raised the book so Murphy could see the title. "Found it in the glovebox."
"How the hell do you pronounce this?" asked Murphy, snatching it from his hands. "Ane? Ine?"
Connor took the book back and said, "Listen to this." He flipped a page, skimmed until he found his place, and started reading: "'The Taggart Transcontinental Railroad, the network of red lines slashing the faded body of the country from New York to San Francisco, looked like a system of blood vessels. It looked as if once, long ago, the blood had shot down the main artery and, under the pressure of its own overabundance, had branched out at random points, running all over the country.'"
Murphy waited, listening for more.
Apparently there was no more.
"So..." said Murphy, "what?"
"It reminds me of us," said Connor.
Murphy frowned. "What? Because it's talking about blood?"
"No. It's talking about blood as gateways. As... roads. A road that had to be there because it just had to be there. Because there was too much of it to remain as it was. This is the natural course of things."
"Don't mind me saying that you're not making a bit of sense," said Murphy. "Amazing how you manage to sound drunk without drinking. I salute your Irishness."
Connor shrugged. "Or, you could be right. Maybe it is just the blood. The thing that we spill all the time." He looked at Murphy. "That's not how it should be, is it? The blood's not the central thing. It's incidental." Connor leaned his head back against the seat. "At the heart of the matter, there's repentance, and purity. Truth."
"Oy. Justice."
"Justice," Connor echoed softly. "The blood is a... side effect."
There was a pause, and when Murphy replied, his voice was all calculated neutrality. "You don't want to do this anymore?"
"I do."
"Are you doubting our quest, and thus doubting God?"
Automated words.
"It's not God I doubt, but the interpretation of God's will through what we do," said Connor. "I doubt myself."
At the edge of Murphy's mind it occurred to him, it was almost understandable, almost graspable to him, how this could make Connor a better leader. But most parts of Murphy were under the impression that their father was an ass sometimes. Connor's faith was under constant attack from himself, of all things. It was simple: Murphy had the faith and Connor didn't. Every time he saw Connor falter at the automated words, the faith would be affirmed again and again.
Murphy had the faith and Connor didn't.
Connor wasn't proving to be a great leader now anyway, loosing his head over some bloody metaphor in a book. What the fuck was that?
"Stop that," Connor mumbled.
"Stop what?"
"Your self-righteousness stinks to high heaven."
"What the fuck are you saying?" Murphy demanded. "What are you saying?" Before Connor could reply, Murphy said, "Just shut up and read your fucking book."
Sighing, Connor turned away. Murphy flipped him off.
Fucking twin empathy.
+
There was a ball-point pen in the glovebox that, upon further investigation, was the same pen used to write the owner's name (Terry Keitel) on Atlas Shrugged's title page, underline key quotes, and scribble small notes in the margin about objectivism, characterization, and doodles of a man in glasses burning in flames.
"We've stolen a student's car," said Murphy, amused.
"Let's see what else is in here," Connor murmured, and the body count went as thus: license, registration, a half-pack of Mentos, a pair of glasses in its case, various scraps of paper with what appeared to be lines from poems and stories written on them, a photo of Terry in cut-offs and a t-shirt hanging upside down from a tree, and a Barenaked Ladies CD in a Chopin CD case.
"Hasn't the girl heard of a wastebasket?" Murphy muttered, and popped a Mentos in his mouth. He offered the pack to Connor, who took it and shook out two.
"Murph," said Connor. "Do you think our father might just... leave and go to Ireland without us?"
"Dunno. He might do."
"History repeats itself."
"Is that what you think?"
Connor shrugged. "I don't know."
"What does your book have to say about it?"
"The book?" Connor opened to a random page. "'You're a pessimist, Eddie. You lack faith. That's what undermines the morale of an organization.'" Connor sighed. "Ah, fuck. Of all the..."
Murphy grinned wryly, and Connor smacked his shoulder with Ayn Rand. "Don't fucking smirk at me, you sanctimonious prick. I'm on the same side as you so stop playing favorites."
"I'm not... He's the one playing favorites."
"No. You are." Connor gave him a sharp look and opened the car door. "Grow up."
The door slammed close and Murphy was alone in the car, glaring at Connor storming to the edge of the bridge. Glared and breathed in, breathed out, and tried to figure out what to do with his wounded pride. Instinct told him to go out and punch Connor, but he resisted.
It just really sucked to face up to an unsavory truth.
"And if he's leaving, it won't matter which of us he likes best anyway," said Connor, when Murphy got out of the car and was now standing next to him. "You're just like a woman, Murph. You make everything more complicated than it is."
As Connor was speaking, he tore pages out of the Ayn Rand book, folding them into paper airplanes and sending them flying up into the night sky, down into the river. Murphy stared at this display for a while, the ghostly glides of white pages stained blue by moonlight, then took the book from Connor and tore out page twenty-six.
"Listen to me, Connor, alright?" Murphy began folding the page.
"I'm listening."
"I'm going to say this as many times as needs be until everything's alright again."
Connor sent his airplane along the breeze. It was a bad plane, this one. Hastily folded. It made a bee line for the water and Connor replied, "I'm here."
With a flick of his wrist, Murphy sent his airplane off across the night, one meter, two meters, three and even further before it touched the surface of the water and was immediately consumed. "Fuck you," said Murphy.
Connor handed him another torn page, which Murphy deftly folded and sent flying. "Fuck you," he said.
Connor handed him another one.
"Fuck you."
And another after that.
Rewind. Repeat. Pages: thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, et cetera. One 'fuck you' per plane, to be received by the river and washed away. Murphy stopped in the mid-forties and stood still, staring at the river that swallowed up his words. Connor said, "You're good, Murphy. Fuck 'good enough', that fucks people up. People are just good, and that's all."
"You're a bastard."
Connor patted Murphy's shoulder. "The wisest one to ever walk the earth, I like to think."
"I care about what we're doing, Con."
"Aye. I know. So do I, believe it or not."
"I know."
"Good."
A couple of minutes passed without a word. It was not so much a comfortable silence as it was a brotherly one, fraught with hairline fractures and a deep and complex trust. There were those who would find their relationship to be too much effort, that too much stamina was needed to keep up with the velocity of their temperaments. But in the end, it was pretty much easy come, easy go, forever bound. Murphy couldn't imagine being brothers any other way. He wondered sometimes if every brother in the world were like Connor and him. If they weren't, it was a pity.
"Pretend, if you will, that we're left behind in America for being a couple of asses," said Connor, leaning against the bridge, "and we're sent to jail. I'd like to say right now that I was only joking."
"About what?"
"About pimping you out at rock-bottom prices."
Murphy rolled his eyes. "Your generosity knows no bounds."
"For my brother, nothing less than seventy-five dollars a go."
"You piece of shit..." Murphy shoved him, Connor shoved back, and they were both smiling.
A bright light from a distance caught their eye. They turned to see, and behold: there was something heading their way. Something large, perhaps a pick-up truck, or a large bear with headlights for eyes.
"I left my gun in the car," Murphy murmured, staring.
"Me too... I'll get it." Connor tossed the Ayn Rand over his shoulder and a second later there was a splash. Sorry, student Terry Keitel. Murphy glanced over the side but the book was gone. The currents had accepted their sacrifice.
She could always get another copy.
"Try to see what kind of people they are," Connor called out.
Being stuck in the middle of nowhere, as his brother said, was fine sometimes, but Newark was still a long way away and Ireland even further. As the lights drew closer, Murphy walked towards it, eyes alert, steps wide, arm outstretched and thumb stuck out like a hitchhiker.
"How angry do you think The Duke will be?" Connor asked, returned to Murphy's side and subtly slipping the gun into his hands.
"At least we'll be too dead to mop up the blood."
"Excellent."
They stood side by side on the road, a bizarre take on the proverbial deer in headlights, watching the vehicle approach. The pick-up truck finally rolled to a stop a few feet away, and a window was rolled down. Murphy and Connor looked at each other, looked at the driver, and, at the same time, smiled.
[end.]
Below is my fic for the BDS Secret Easter Bunny Challenge. The fic had to be on a bridge. Extra points are awarded if I incorporate cut-offs, ballpoint pens, and Ayn Rand. The lyric was "Don't make me live for my Friday nights/drinking eight pints and getting in fights" from Jamie Cullum's 'Twentysomething', so I respected Mr. Cullum's wishes and didn't do anything of the like. Hope you like it,
kadyn.Title: En Route
Fandom: Boondock Saints
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Troy Duffy owns, he creates, I just lie a lot.
Summary: "I thought its flickering lights were spelling out 'happy drive to Newark, boys' in Morse code, but no. It was really saying 'come back here, you fuckwit, you've got no petrol'."
En Route
"I have no problem with being in the middle of fucking nowhere, Murph, you understand?" said Connor, leaning back in the passenger seat. "If I were to be honest, I'd even say I enjoy being in the middle of fucking nowhere. After all, I grew up there, as did you, far away from what most people today would call," Connor made finger quotes, "'civilization'. I found it to be an idyllic and enjoyable life, though somewhat materially spartan, but I found that overall the lifestyle agreed with my nature and fostered a healthy peace of mind."
Murphy stared morosely out the windshield. "You don't have to be such a bastard about it."
"What I do have a problem with," Connor said, ignoring him, "is when we're in the middle of fucking nowhere, and it's night, and it's cold, and we have to meet our father in Newark in a few hours to leave the country so we won't die in the electric chair. But hey. Hey, Murph. Murphy."
"What."
"Guess what?"
"What."
"Guess what, Murphy."
"Fucking what, Jesus Christ, I hate it when you're like this."
"We can't go to Newark because you didn't have the sense to hotwire a car with petrol in it." Connor chuckled. Then let out a mighty war cry and lunged at Murphy. "You fucking stupid bastard! You fucker! You oaf! If they send us to the chair, I'll have them fry you before me. If we're slapped with life sentences, I'll be your fucking pimp and rent you out to large, tattooed men at rock-bottom prices!"
There were choking sounds and scuffling noises, punctuated by yelling and some clipped cursing. The stolen car rocked back and forth as if it was occupied by hormonal teenagers instead of disorganized Irishmen with homicidal tendencies. Murphy managed to get a good grip on Connor and pinned him against the steering wheel. The car horn sounded like some unholy demon shriek.
"Get a fucking grip!" Murphy yelled and wondered if Connor could hear him through the racket. He shook Connor for good measure. "Get a fucking grip, but not of my neck."
Connor let go and Murphy wasted no time in getting out of the car. He slammed the door shut and...
And nothing. They were on some bridge in the boonies without any gas and there didn't seem to be much they could do about it. There weren't any cars coming or going. To walk out of here they'd have to go through dark roads surrounded by darker forests, and fuck that. Bears might eat him.
Murphy heard the car door open and Connor's voice saying, "I actually saw a gas station, back miles and miles ago, and you still drove past it. You drove right past it and there I was, just watching it pass us by because I thought we didn't need it. I thought its flickering lights were spelling out 'happy drive to Newark, boys' in Morse code, but no. It was really saying 'come back here, you fuckwit, you've got no petrol'."
"Would you shut up and let me think?!"
"We've had enough of your kind of thinking."
"If you'd calm the fuck down, we might get out of here faster," Murphy snapped. "I think I like you better when you're killing mafia hitmen."
"It's not killing, it's cleansing," Connor said automatically, the way some people say 'bless you' after a sneeze. "It's not wrong because they're the ones who are wrong."
Automated words, picked up from their father. Learning these slogans from him, Murphy almost felt as if Il Duce was re-raising them. Starting over. Having a go at a second chance amidst extraordinary circumstances. Suddenly he and Connor were as children learning their first words, and Murphy found this parallel touching and unsettling at the same time. It was a strange joy to have his father back, but Murphy wasn't sure he liked being reshaped to his will. What kept Murphy tolerant was his dedication to their mission. The twins embraced their father's gospel out of their love for God and goodness, but there were times when Connor would say the words, or touch upon the subject, and something in his eyes would falter. Like now. There was that look as if a thought had occurred to him midsentence, and it hadn't been a very good thought at all.
"It's in the nature of a good leader," Il Duce said to Murphy one time when Connor left the room. "Bouts of utter conviction interspersed with bouts of questioning. They always question what they do, because they're the ones who truly care."
"I care," Murphy said quickly.
Il Duce paused his gun-polishing and looked at him. It was a rare sight to see his father's eyes sans sunglasses. Murphy was always surprised to see that they were the same color as his own. And that was his own nose, and Connor's frown lines, both their cheekbones, and it was as if Il Duce was made of Murphy and Connor instead of the other way around.
"I didn't say you didn't care, boy," Il Duce had said.
Back on the bridge, Murphy leaned against the thick crossbar of the bridge and stared at the water swirling below as his brother behind him demanded - to no one in particular, it seemed - to know what in fuck they were supposed to do now. He walked over to Murphy, demanded to know what Murphy was looking at, paced around a bit, sat down on the ground against the crossbar, and shut up.
A few seconds later, Connor asked, "What if someone else stops here?"
"Great. They might give us a lift."
"No, what if they stop and recognize us."
"Then we'll make them drive us to Newark at gunpoint."
"What if they don't recognize us?"
"...That'd be great, too."
"What if they're just pretending not to recognize us, and as soon as they drop us off in Newark, they send the police after us?"
"What the fuck, Connor."
"And we never get to Ireland," said Connor, not listening anymore. "It's the chair or a lifetime of sodomy and we won't even get to choose."
Ignoring Connor's last line of thought, Murphy cut in, "I guess it's gunpoint, then. Or, if you want, we can pull them out of the car and throw them off the bridge." Murphy gestured at the water below them. "Must be about ten feet to the surface, which isn't much, but I bet the current's strong."
"You're not being serious," Connor said irritably.
"Aye, 'cos I fucking hope you aren't serious either," Murphy snapped. "Fuck's sake. You're a bastard when you're wound up, d'you know?"
"...Sorry."
"Forgiven. Jesus." Pause. "So what are we going to do?"
Connor touched the back of his head to the crossbar. "We walk back to that gas station."
"But that was miles ago."
A few seconds passed.
"You go."
"You go."
"You."
"You go 'cos you've been a fucking bastard."
"You go 'cos this is all your fucking fault!"
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Fine," said Connor, getting up and walking to the car.
"There'd be no point, Connor!" Murphy called out after him. "Wave goodbye to Ireland. We're staying here in the land of the free and the home of the fucking brave!"
"We're never going to rid the world of sinners this way, you know," Connor sighed. He opened the door to the passenger side, climbed in, and slammed it shut.
The sibilant roar of rushing water filled Murphy's ears, which, Murphy supposed, was better than the roar of their minds regressing to adolescence.
+
In the time it took Murphy to smoke four cigarettes, no cars have passed. Connor was still sulking in the car with the windows rolled up, apparently too much in a mood to even share oxygen with Murphy. Another way to look at this was that it was cold outside, and Murphy was the one who was too much in a mood to get in the car where it would be at least a little bit warmer.
After the fifth cigarette, survival instincts won out over pride, and Murpy opened the driver's door and got in.
"If I'm walking, I'm shooting you, burning your body, and carrying it along with me for warmth," said Murphy. "What's that you're holding?"
"'Years later, he heard it said that children should be protected from shock,'" Connor read out, "'from their first knowledge of death, pain, or fear. But these had never scarred him; his shock came when he stood very quietly, looking into the black hole of the trunk. It was an immense betrayal - the more terrible because he could grasp what it was that had been betrayed.'"
"...Pardon?"
Connor raised the book so Murphy could see the title. "Found it in the glovebox."
"How the hell do you pronounce this?" asked Murphy, snatching it from his hands. "Ane? Ine?"
Connor took the book back and said, "Listen to this." He flipped a page, skimmed until he found his place, and started reading: "'The Taggart Transcontinental Railroad, the network of red lines slashing the faded body of the country from New York to San Francisco, looked like a system of blood vessels. It looked as if once, long ago, the blood had shot down the main artery and, under the pressure of its own overabundance, had branched out at random points, running all over the country.'"
Murphy waited, listening for more.
Apparently there was no more.
"So..." said Murphy, "what?"
"It reminds me of us," said Connor.
Murphy frowned. "What? Because it's talking about blood?"
"No. It's talking about blood as gateways. As... roads. A road that had to be there because it just had to be there. Because there was too much of it to remain as it was. This is the natural course of things."
"Don't mind me saying that you're not making a bit of sense," said Murphy. "Amazing how you manage to sound drunk without drinking. I salute your Irishness."
Connor shrugged. "Or, you could be right. Maybe it is just the blood. The thing that we spill all the time." He looked at Murphy. "That's not how it should be, is it? The blood's not the central thing. It's incidental." Connor leaned his head back against the seat. "At the heart of the matter, there's repentance, and purity. Truth."
"Oy. Justice."
"Justice," Connor echoed softly. "The blood is a... side effect."
There was a pause, and when Murphy replied, his voice was all calculated neutrality. "You don't want to do this anymore?"
"I do."
"Are you doubting our quest, and thus doubting God?"
Automated words.
"It's not God I doubt, but the interpretation of God's will through what we do," said Connor. "I doubt myself."
At the edge of Murphy's mind it occurred to him, it was almost understandable, almost graspable to him, how this could make Connor a better leader. But most parts of Murphy were under the impression that their father was an ass sometimes. Connor's faith was under constant attack from himself, of all things. It was simple: Murphy had the faith and Connor didn't. Every time he saw Connor falter at the automated words, the faith would be affirmed again and again.
Murphy had the faith and Connor didn't.
Connor wasn't proving to be a great leader now anyway, loosing his head over some bloody metaphor in a book. What the fuck was that?
"Stop that," Connor mumbled.
"Stop what?"
"Your self-righteousness stinks to high heaven."
"What the fuck are you saying?" Murphy demanded. "What are you saying?" Before Connor could reply, Murphy said, "Just shut up and read your fucking book."
Sighing, Connor turned away. Murphy flipped him off.
Fucking twin empathy.
+
There was a ball-point pen in the glovebox that, upon further investigation, was the same pen used to write the owner's name (Terry Keitel) on Atlas Shrugged's title page, underline key quotes, and scribble small notes in the margin about objectivism, characterization, and doodles of a man in glasses burning in flames.
"We've stolen a student's car," said Murphy, amused.
"Let's see what else is in here," Connor murmured, and the body count went as thus: license, registration, a half-pack of Mentos, a pair of glasses in its case, various scraps of paper with what appeared to be lines from poems and stories written on them, a photo of Terry in cut-offs and a t-shirt hanging upside down from a tree, and a Barenaked Ladies CD in a Chopin CD case.
"Hasn't the girl heard of a wastebasket?" Murphy muttered, and popped a Mentos in his mouth. He offered the pack to Connor, who took it and shook out two.
"Murph," said Connor. "Do you think our father might just... leave and go to Ireland without us?"
"Dunno. He might do."
"History repeats itself."
"Is that what you think?"
Connor shrugged. "I don't know."
"What does your book have to say about it?"
"The book?" Connor opened to a random page. "'You're a pessimist, Eddie. You lack faith. That's what undermines the morale of an organization.'" Connor sighed. "Ah, fuck. Of all the..."
Murphy grinned wryly, and Connor smacked his shoulder with Ayn Rand. "Don't fucking smirk at me, you sanctimonious prick. I'm on the same side as you so stop playing favorites."
"I'm not... He's the one playing favorites."
"No. You are." Connor gave him a sharp look and opened the car door. "Grow up."
The door slammed close and Murphy was alone in the car, glaring at Connor storming to the edge of the bridge. Glared and breathed in, breathed out, and tried to figure out what to do with his wounded pride. Instinct told him to go out and punch Connor, but he resisted.
It just really sucked to face up to an unsavory truth.
"And if he's leaving, it won't matter which of us he likes best anyway," said Connor, when Murphy got out of the car and was now standing next to him. "You're just like a woman, Murph. You make everything more complicated than it is."
As Connor was speaking, he tore pages out of the Ayn Rand book, folding them into paper airplanes and sending them flying up into the night sky, down into the river. Murphy stared at this display for a while, the ghostly glides of white pages stained blue by moonlight, then took the book from Connor and tore out page twenty-six.
"Listen to me, Connor, alright?" Murphy began folding the page.
"I'm listening."
"I'm going to say this as many times as needs be until everything's alright again."
Connor sent his airplane along the breeze. It was a bad plane, this one. Hastily folded. It made a bee line for the water and Connor replied, "I'm here."
With a flick of his wrist, Murphy sent his airplane off across the night, one meter, two meters, three and even further before it touched the surface of the water and was immediately consumed. "Fuck you," said Murphy.
Connor handed him another torn page, which Murphy deftly folded and sent flying. "Fuck you," he said.
Connor handed him another one.
"Fuck you."
And another after that.
Rewind. Repeat. Pages: thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, et cetera. One 'fuck you' per plane, to be received by the river and washed away. Murphy stopped in the mid-forties and stood still, staring at the river that swallowed up his words. Connor said, "You're good, Murphy. Fuck 'good enough', that fucks people up. People are just good, and that's all."
"You're a bastard."
Connor patted Murphy's shoulder. "The wisest one to ever walk the earth, I like to think."
"I care about what we're doing, Con."
"Aye. I know. So do I, believe it or not."
"I know."
"Good."
A couple of minutes passed without a word. It was not so much a comfortable silence as it was a brotherly one, fraught with hairline fractures and a deep and complex trust. There were those who would find their relationship to be too much effort, that too much stamina was needed to keep up with the velocity of their temperaments. But in the end, it was pretty much easy come, easy go, forever bound. Murphy couldn't imagine being brothers any other way. He wondered sometimes if every brother in the world were like Connor and him. If they weren't, it was a pity.
"Pretend, if you will, that we're left behind in America for being a couple of asses," said Connor, leaning against the bridge, "and we're sent to jail. I'd like to say right now that I was only joking."
"About what?"
"About pimping you out at rock-bottom prices."
Murphy rolled his eyes. "Your generosity knows no bounds."
"For my brother, nothing less than seventy-five dollars a go."
"You piece of shit..." Murphy shoved him, Connor shoved back, and they were both smiling.
A bright light from a distance caught their eye. They turned to see, and behold: there was something heading their way. Something large, perhaps a pick-up truck, or a large bear with headlights for eyes.
"I left my gun in the car," Murphy murmured, staring.
"Me too... I'll get it." Connor tossed the Ayn Rand over his shoulder and a second later there was a splash. Sorry, student Terry Keitel. Murphy glanced over the side but the book was gone. The currents had accepted their sacrifice.
She could always get another copy.
"Try to see what kind of people they are," Connor called out.
Being stuck in the middle of nowhere, as his brother said, was fine sometimes, but Newark was still a long way away and Ireland even further. As the lights drew closer, Murphy walked towards it, eyes alert, steps wide, arm outstretched and thumb stuck out like a hitchhiker.
"How angry do you think The Duke will be?" Connor asked, returned to Murphy's side and subtly slipping the gun into his hands.
"At least we'll be too dead to mop up the blood."
"Excellent."
They stood side by side on the road, a bizarre take on the proverbial deer in headlights, watching the vehicle approach. The pick-up truck finally rolled to a stop a few feet away, and a window was rolled down. Murphy and Connor looked at each other, looked at the driver, and, at the same time, smiled.
[end.]
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Murphy managed to get a good grip on Connor and pinned him against the steering wheel. The car horn sounded like some unholy demon shriek. haaaahahah
paper airplanes are highly underrated
Oh cool. Dude, I'm glad you think so. Thank you! :D
I haven't watched Simply Irresistible. Sort of. What happened was, a friend rented it for a get-together of ours. The majority decided it was crap and went off to play cards instead, abandoning her to watch it alone. 'Cos we're just compassionate like that.