Brother Hates Me

By Michael Farnum

How could a brother and sister hate each other so badly? And why?
Big brother, Mitchell Morgan, dark, moody, a blatantly anti-social loner, can hold an ancient grudge with legendary tenacity. A master of disguises and alter egos, at least in his own mind, the mercurial journeyman private eye can also be disarmingly charming, when he wants to be.
Little sister, Marissa, gregarious and deceptively angel-faced, a carefree natural-born criminal who has always played by her own rules. And frequently pays the price.
Bitter products of a broken home, they traverse their separate but not wholly dissimilar lives, develop eclectic friendships—some more tenuous than others—and search for love and other things in all the wrong places. Sibling rivalry can be a real pain in the butt. And sometimes it's a matter of life and death . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365536250

Book preview

Brother Hates Me

Brother Hates Me:

a novel      __________________________________________________________________________________

By Michael Farnum

©Flying Monkey Publications

2016

Copyright Page

Copyright © 2016 by Michael Farnum

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2016

ISBN: 978-1-365-53625-0

Flying Monkey Publications

5313 N. Oro Vista Ct.

Litchfield Park, AZ 85340

www.Lulu.com

Dedication

Sister burns brightly—

Sister runs spritely–-

Rushed out by the tide—

Lost in night’s eternity—

Sister fades—

Ever so quietly.

--For Melissa, and Daddy,

wherever they may be . . .

Although based on real-life events,

the following is a work of fiction.

Any similarities to actual events or persons,

living or dead, is purely coincidental.

One

They grew up together, however begrudgingly, not-so-loving sister and brother, along a lonesome stretch of Ridge Road, somewhere in western Kentucky.

Dirt-poor but blissfully oblivious to the fact they were, most of the time.  When they did end up playing together somehow, which was never as often as Marissa Lee would have liked, admittedly, it normally led to some undesirable bit of earth-shaking, apocalyptic drama.  Not often, but on rare occasions during those endless summers, they would race on foot right along the sweltering two-lane blacktop in front of their family’s shitty, piss-green fishing shack.  First one to touch the billowy monster limbs of the giant weeping willow just past Geraldine’s ranch house was undisputed Olympic Champion of the World.  Faster than flashflood lightning.  Stronger than one of his lame-ass comic book superheroes.  Sweeter than their adopted grandma’s homemade cherry pie.  Second-place was a dirty, stinky rotten dodo bird’s egg.  A total loser who had to do the Champion’s chores without complaint for a hellish week; and bow at Her Majesty’s pristine, magical bare feet like a weak-kneed little bitch and not say shit about it, Loser Boy.  Or girl. 

Something right out of a cinematic fairy tale, the ginormous and ancient willow was the very same that conspicuously obstructed the view of any potential motorist hazardously venturing southbound down the road, traversing that precarious turn around locally notorious Blind Man’s Curve.  The sad fact was, without fail, fleet-footed Marissa left him in the dust, kicked young Mitchell’s lame, lead-legged ass every damned time.  Passive-aggressive sore loser that he was, big brother silently comforted himself via the fact that smirky little sis would be the one to take the full blunt of any unsuspecting death mobile that might happen to be coming around the way at that very same unfortuitous time.  God forbid.  That memorable midsummer’s day, doe-eyed Marissa was more than lucky her fresh, young reflexes were Uber sharp. 

Somehow the nascent intuitive spotted the super-charged Cherry Bomb street racer roaring blindly around the Ridge’s infamous death trap a split-second before she flew across the invisible finish line.  The reckless little shit possessed the involuntary wherewithal to leap out of harm’s way, deftly tumbling ass-backwards down a steep, verdant gully and a harmless patch of chigger-infested wildflowers.  Nearly as well-known as the dangerous, local landmark, the souped-up, cherry-red hotrod proudly belonging to their big sister’s hillbilly bestie narrowly avoided decimating the foolish, suicidal road rat by the slimmest of margins.  Hell’s bells and shit the bed, Fred!  Bad-ass Bonnie Johnson’s sharp-ass Cherry Bomb tore a treacherous skid-marked path through the shady front yard, came to a horrendous halt in the middle of the kitschy country living room of their kindly Kentucky gram and their terminally ill crank of a paternal grandpa.  A good twenty yards out of harm’s way down the road himself, a shell-shocked young Mitchell just looked on in wide-eyed amazement at the freaky scene. 

They would come to find soon enough that their unlicensed, fifteen-year-old half-sister happened to be at the wheel.  Was it any wonder that crabby-ass Shelly Lynn hated them so?  A mild case of whiplash was not going to change that either way.  Meanwhile, Mitchell may have been ignominiously defeated in every single footrace he so foolishly engaged in versus his freakish little sis.  But the boy took modestly unspoken solace in the undeniable fact that he was measurably faster in the water than she, be it motel swimming pool or Kentucky Lake.  This was likely the last time they would ever race, by land, if not by sea.  Or so he swore, again. 

In all the hysterical confusion of the moments that followed, they didn’t fully realize Marissa had actually survived the near-disaster.  For some odd reason, the golden-haired sprite disappeared into that turgid thicket of wild sunflowers and honey suckle blossoms for a stretch, as the wayward child tended to do from time to time.  As the sheriff’s department arrived to investigate the incident and county EMTs tended to survivors, the lost wunderkind innocently re-emerged from the thorny woods behind the family cabin the better part of an hour later.

What cha doin’ there, loser boy?  Notably dehydrated but distracted by his favorite Hot Wheels, Mitchell had been sequestered indefinitely on the front porch as a material witness.  Big brother tentatively fending off the affectionate advances of Shadow, the feral neighborhood black cat who came and went like a stray summer wind.  Boy never was much of a cat person, not to mention his terrible allergies.

The little psycho was always landing him in deep shit.  Like last summer, daring him to race up that lofty, slowly dying white oak out front of their shitty cabin.  Halfway up, he slipped, hanging on for dear life, frozen in fear.  Eventually losing his tenuous grip, Mitchell fell, crashing into the harsh gravel drive far below.  Bleeding pretty badly from a head wound, had to be rushed to the county hospital.  Ended up with fractured wrists, a broken leg, requiring expensive surgeries and later on, more pricey physical therapy.  A whole lot of medical expenses their mama and daddy couldn’t afford.  And probably the reason he was never the fastest runner after that, he strongly suspected.

Shortly thereafter, a victim of his own over-reactionary tendencies, their father, along with the assistance of Uncle Mick next door, rented an industrial chain saw.  Hoping to avoid the possibility of any such future catastrophes, they furiously lopped off the lowest-hanging branches reasonably reachable to any of their climb-happy little flying monkeys.  In the process a huge limb conked their daddy, foolishly not wearing the proper safety headgear, directly in the noggin, knocking his ass silly.  A heated argument ensued.  Long story short, the historically combative twin brothers, one as stubborn as the other, hadn’t spoken a word between them since the ridiculous incident. 

Everything was her fault, incorrigible Marissa.   

Presumably still unaware of recent events, their mama had yet to return home from work cleaning rooms at the local tourist inn with their auntie.  Their overly concerned Uncle Mick, the interstate trucker who still resided in the trailer next door, had already begun to organize a handful of neighbors for a frantic group search. Slightly stirred and shaken, a moderately banged-up Shelly Lynn was back in her room, being subjected to a grueling interrogation by their daddy, who had been rudely awakened from his afternoon nap, and Deputy Mac, ol’ Geraldine’s youngest nephew.  What the hell is wrong with you, girl?  What the holy hell were you thinking?!

Returning to his patrol car to resume normal duties, the unsuspecting deputy subsequently stumbled across the flower-bearing fugitive, laconically strolling up the sparse gravel drive.

Hey, there, l’il lady, exclaimed the sawed-off little lawman with a start.  Oh my sweet Lord Jesus, Joseph and Mary . . .

The precious, little thing was a sight.  Young Marissa’s skin had been rendered freshly flushed and conspicuously pink as a baby Arkansas razorback.  Obviously in the midst of her mysterious trek, the poor thing had come across a nasty patch of poison ivy or sumac.  But what would prove to be even more disturbing to the diminutive deputy and everyone else alike:  the bizarre, inky-black pentagram complexly etched into the temporarily missing girl’s delicate forehead.

Marissa would shortly reveal that the strange marking was made by her so-called new friends from the forest.  The ancient ones who came from the sky, a long, long time ago . . . They seemed nice enough, she said.

Everyone on the Ridge knew the delightfully touched, little Morgan girl claimed to see and talk with the Dead.  Her intricate and detail-rich daily private conversations with dearly and long-departed neighbor, ol’ Miss Ellie, former proprietor of the No Name Motel down the way, was seemingly clear evidence of this unexplained anomaly.  Regarding her brief vanishing, most folks believed the curious child had foolishly ventured off into the strictly verboten gypsy trailer trash park a mile or so up the road.  There, the unwitting waif had most likely encountered any number of potentially dangerous, unsavory characters just looking to prey upon the innocent and the unsuspecting upon those loathsome, unholy grounds.  Whatever the case, it was the oddest thing. All in all, this latest supernatural ordeal appeared to attain a whole different level of precocious and inexplicable strangeness altogether regarding the Uber-sensitive seven-year-old, everyone generally agreed. 

When their mama finally got home that night she power-washed that devil’s mark off, tout de suite.  Luckily that evil shit came off fairly easy, from whatever deep, dark hole in the universe it came.  Just Magic Marker or some shit.  Their daddy was never scolded so harshly for his notoriously lackadaisical parental supervision, or lack thereof.  Catherine was aghast that the man was actually considering believing that madaliens in the woods nonsense.  She truly had married a lunatic. 

For this and a million other reasons, they were moving back to Chicago, post haste, with or without crazy Daddy.  

Two

The worst lies are the ones we tell ourselves.  But there is meager redemption in self-confession.  We all need a Father Confessor.  Or Mother.

Morgan had a standing therapy appointment with Miss Raven every Wednesday evening after dark.  To be more precise, she was known as simply The Raven.  The Raven’s office was a makeshift dungeon at the back of the Goth club under the Lake Street Red Line tracks, South Side.  The VIP Room, they called it.  Clueless bitch boy guessed that she was part Japanese, part Brazilian.  A scant degree of Native American, maybe.  Considering the pathological penchant for cruelty, had to be some German in there.  But personal questions were strictly verboten by The Raven.  Strangely enough, neither one spoke much.  What little he had to go on was the following:  Her diminutive but exceptionally sinewy, obnoxiously tattooed physique.  Her seemingly flawless caramel mocha complexion, intermittently lit with a potent patchouli candle or the torturous overhead flicker of those punishing bug zapper fluorescents.  And finally, that strangely intimidating, velvety silk, night-black mane, precisely lustful hip-length.  A highly exotic combination, to say the least, The Raven provided a near-endless supply of super-fuel to feed his insatiable flow of vibrant, lascivious, private, sick man-fantasies.  Foolish bitch boy doubted that was The Raven’s real name.  Bitch boy had uncanny knack for blatantly stupid obvious.  No more foolish talk.  Or Raven tie you up and hang you from highest point in Windy City.  Or arrange to have you deliver big, important speech in front of largest, harshest million-man crowd bitch boy ever imagine in his worst freaking nightmares . . .  The blissfully merciless bitch knew all of his deepest, darkest fears and painstakingly guarded secrets, bless her pitch-black sadistic heart.

Same time next week, Mr. Mitchell?

Yes, please, and thank you, your highly esteemed Miss Raven . . . 

He could just barely hear it.  Could blame it on his one bad ear, most likely.  Van Morrison’s Ordinary People playing softly over the hotel suite’s invisible stereo system.  Judging by the position of the rising sun hovering like a death star over the Palace’s Uber-luxurious tops-optional adults-only round-the-clock pool, it was nary half past pumpkin chai latte and blueberry scones, or barely 9:30 AM.  Morgan was rarely off by much.  Welcome to Sensory Overload City.  Mitchell’s first time in Vegas ever, by the way.

What’s up, Chuck?  A twenty for your thoughts?  Perhaps another forty-dollar frozen margarita, my love?  Generous tip, not included.  Apparently sleepy-eyed Jacqui Lynn abhorred traveling alone, especially to Sin City.  Without a strong, handsome and slightly too-young escort to accompany her through the high-end casinos, celebrity-private dance clubs, top-shelf wine bars and off-the-hook invite-only rooftop poolside parties, Ms. Jacqui would be literally fighting off the undesirable creeps from St. Louis and other parts unknown with double-fisted pepper spray.  Or so she said, the shameless, silver-tongued flatterer.

Big Man Malcolm had been called away on business at the last minute, once again, leaving poor Jacqui to fend for herself.  Off to Idaho or Utah, some godforsaken place, doing what he did best.  Diligently scouting promising remote locations, heartlessly estimating the inevitable environmental destruction to be reaped, effortlessly bribing local officials, ruthlessly swindling and/or intimidating another tribe of defenseless Indians and trailer trash off their land and so on.  In short, effectively making way for the big man’s latest mega-sized, five-star winter sport resort for the super-rich and over-privileged.  Not a billionaire to be trifled with, Jacqui had coyly cautioned earlier in bed.  Malcolm The Rainmaker Goldenstern III, by hook or by crook, ruled Wrigleyville, owned half the Gold Coast, the better part of Bridgeport, at least a crooked quarter of the shiftless city council and a Senator or two, for good measure.  The ubiquitous, meticulous kingpin had quietly staked a major claim to every riverboat and Indian casino from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan to the godless swamps of Florida.  And several out west, Oklahoma, Arizona, what-have-you. 

By all accounts, Goldenstern was the richest, most powerful real estate magnate in Chicago; and Jacqui Lynn Moynahan no less than his indispensable right-hand woman and impressively top-earning sales executive.  A former powerhouse attorney herself, the entrepreneurial Windy City socialite had her sleek fingers in a half dozen companies, most notably a lucrative private security and investigations firm.  Mitchell Morgan was presently one of her top independently-contracted operatives.  A promising and ambitious paralegal at her former Fortune 500 firm, Moynahan had lured the disquietingly quiet but tirelessly dedicated young opportunist away for her own devices.  Back at good, old Mayer, Mooney and Moynahan on the 66th floor of the Sears Tower, young Morgan was known (not-so-secretly) as Silent but Deadly. (It was an inexplicably ugly rumor that began sometime after a notoriously chatty cube mate attempted to throw herself out the nearest high-rise window one fateful workday.  But that high-tech glass was virtually impenetrable these days.) 

If the man ever decides to run for higher office himself, we’re all screwed, buddy boy, cynically predicted his generous paramour as she hungrily polished off the super-sized silver platter of so-so gourmet French toast, eggs Benedict and Canadian bacon.  Evidently, the man was a bona fide maniac.

But no worries, Brown Eyes, she casually assured her young charge in the very next breath, the handsomely aged platinum blonde unabashedly nude in their spacious penthouse California King.  Leisurely dragging on the desert weed she had scored from the eager-to-please bellman, the well-traveled muse curiously perused a hefty pending real estate contract; nearly as elaborate, the unapologetically pricey Caesar’s room service menu.  "What are you in the mood for, M & M?  Besides me, of course."  Meanwhile, until the long-awaited day Big M put a five-figure ring on her finger, Ms. Jacqui was her own woman, she boldly reassured her curiously pensive companion.  Supposedly the notably high-profile couple had a conveniently open arrangement, a mutually synergistic situation that benefited both self-serving, opportunistic parties.  Whatever that meant. And it was no secret that old horn dog had a stable of floozies in every port himself.  The shameless, sociopathic philanderer was probably getting group head from a sky-high orgy of peyote-smoking, PBR-slurping double-D Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders as they spoke.  Afterwards, the Notre Dame game, of course, Mr. Maniac would go skydiving, bridge-jumping or copter-skiing with a band of his a-hole Fighting Irish frat buddies or some shit. 

Mitchell casually rifled through the nightstand in search of his Smart phone.  He hadn’t checked his messages since the airport.  He lied and said he was looking for the remote.  And that doesn’t bother you in the least, Boss Lady? he offered, suspiciously.  And this wouldn’t bother him at all? he dangerously inquired, through a noticeable lump deep down in his desert-parched throat.

The subtly volatile Miss Jacqui flashed him a mildly irritated look.  Some things were better left unsaid.  Had she brought up the inconvenient fact of his pretty, little college girlfriend back home?

Well as to the latter, I never said that now, did I? she replied, the cagey minx predictably evasive, taking a long swallow of the painfully over-priced breakfast champagne juice.  But as to the former:  Hell, no, I’m petrified of heights, Lover Boy, she assured him through a whimsical, deep-throated cackle.  At least three sheets to the wind and not even noon, Jacqui Lynn carelessly tossed away the delicate champagne flute and her half-drunk Bellini.  "By the way, please stop calling me that, you sassy little smart ass.  You know what, Chuck . . ."

Speaking of heart-stopping thrills, which they had been at some point, stubbing out her spent Virginia Slim, the tirelessly toying temptress suddenly offered her wide-eyed one-man concubine another unexpected amenity.  Anyways, FYI: this private party’s just getting started, lover boy, she promised through a Lauren Becall-worthy come-hither whisper, Morgan’s relentless peroxide patroness creeping wildcat-like across the extravagant love nest.  The spur-of-the-moment, silver-studded, whipped creme blow job was something, the likes of which he had never experienced, truth be told.  Apparently, there was no substitute for experience.  This happened to be Mitchell’s first time in Vegas with an older woman at such a decadently privileged establishment, bless his lucky heart.  And experiencing such shamefully materialistic, wantonly spendthrift metrosexual decadence, at that.

He could probably get used to this shit.

Discreetly refreshing her palate with a flute of freshly-popped Dom, Jacqui Lynn fired up another infernal cigarette.  He hated smokers, in general.  Aside from that he had no complaints regarding her generous company thus far.  Other than godawful early morning coffee breath, on occasion.   

Your pretty little cocoa butter princess ever do that for you, Slick? coyly inquired the wily vixen with a lascivious grin. Purposely whispering in modest Mitchie’s less-than-perfectly-functioning ear.  He still heard that trifling shit.   

Shut up, shut up, shut up . . . 

His aging paramour’s distinctly translucent, larger-than-life baby blues regarded him lovingly, her piercing falcon’s eyes lingering just a little too long for his reticent preference.  "By the way, you never did