He tells you stories, sometimes, in exchange for a wrench or bolt or a glass of lemonade shot with chilled rum. You find him dangling from the rafters for his opener, more circus performer than your hired construction worker, his hammer swinging from arms wide open like he’s king of the whole fledgling laboratory beneath him. He narrates like Dickens rebirthed, except with less beard and more flair, sometimes with nails sticking out between his lips as he hammers the conclusion home. The tall-tales are twistedly original but familiar, the way he himself is, a faint shadow of a memory with parts slightly shifted, happy ending not quite right and insufferable grin two ticks off.
You’re not that into a whole lotta fiction, you tell him when he starts, nixing wizards and Lisbeth Salanders. There’s too much speculation on the unknown for you to rest easy. ‘Sides, the plots are dumb.
Some Anon requested BroMom in Disneyland. Bro would visit the place in search of some Jim Henson tribute! I guess… Mouse is fucking everywhere! This is puppet territory, so fuck off! (Next week they visited WarnerBros studio so Mom could see the Harry Potter making of.)
the prompt was “Remember when Bro and Mom met in the 80s?” so i did if they were in high school (2 cool 4 skool bro in his mismatching denim approaching the gnarliest girl school), and if they were in middle school (mom rolling up on bro who has a GameBoy)