Jimmy Pitts, the Squirrel Boy
I don’t believe I’ve mentioned my brother Jimmy before. But then, I’m not normally in the habit of mentioning him. We were never really that close.
We were so in love that we inspired a new generation of romance films.
As I buzzed down the road in my VW Beetle, I scanned eagerly for the silhouette of her house.
“Web of intrigue widens as two more found dead,” crackled the radio.
My heart began to pound furiously, and suddenly I was plucking the strings of her dulcet doorbell.
The first thing I saw was a long, shapely leg, then a pair flashing eyes, and then the lustrous, silver knife.
I was so sad that the clouds echoed my sentiment.
The old oak tree loomed overhead as I sank my shovel into the dark, dank earth.
“Nothing lasts forever,” my mother had said.
What hollow words those were.
Time slowed to a crawl as I watched each drop of rain fall upon his small, mangled body.
There in the backyard, I buried my best friend and carved his name into the mud:
“G. I. JOE.”