“Mother-fucker!” screamed Dancer in anguish unfamiliar to his brother. Prancer had seen him pissed off. He had seen him disappointed, but never had he seen his twin brother heartbroken.
“Dance, I know what you’re thinking-“
“It wasn’t me!”
“That little shit!”
“I swear… Wait—who?”
For the first time in his life, Prancer was not the one blamed for one of his brother’s clumsy accidents. The man could dance, but had the everyday gracefulness of a bull in a china shop. It was Prancer who had helped his jock brother avoid the black ice near the garbage cans, the ice fishing holes during winter, and the wet leaves on pavement in the fall. Prancer had always been smarter, more clever, much to Dancer’s envy. He had interpreted Prancer’s warnings as evidence of plots meant to literally and figuratively bring his downfall. It was only after an accident without his brother present did Dancer see whom the real culprit was.
“That fucking red-nosed punk! He’s been jockeying for lead since he sprouted his first antler!”
And with that deflating excuse for self-realization, Prancer turned the hose on his gimp brother.