The Ocho

My older brother, Rambler, and I have a pact:

We are, at all costs, both to avoid being forcefully relocated to any correctional facility, holding tank, holding pen, paddy wagon, or back seat of the vehicle of any official government agent.

Even ten minutes in one of those tourist pens during the annual New Years celebration at time square, I think, would shatter the pack. I feel the anti-official detention pact quite strongly, and I suspect that he does as well. This pact is greater than a little extra reason to avoid such situation in a selfish manner. Neigh, it is the opposite. We do it to help each other.

You see, we are the only members of the family to not have spent some period of time in an officially sanctioned time out (save for my mother, who is above reproach, though I admit to being ignorant of his own mother’s history of incarceration). If one of us were to fall, then the other would be as the last leaf on a dying tree, braving the wind and rain and snow with no others to help hold back the forces of nature, which are ever pitted against it and it’s kin.

It is selfish in a sense. It is selfish, because I do not want to be that last one. If I were, might I do something, asinine, so I may too taste the families forbidden fruit? I would like to think not, but I prefer not to find out.

p.s., by the way, K, was Ralph Nader worth it?