Brother Against Brother

The tension in this office, sir, has become a big pussy boil. If that sounds gross, be clear I do not mean a boil on a lady's parts. I mean a boil filled with pus, which is quite gross in itself, but I'm not going too far with it. This boil has popped all over us. Watch out where you step in the commune offices—pus is everywhere.

I've just been informed by my sage counsel Sully to cut out the pus references. We can actually see the number of visitors deteriorating before our eyes. Very well—on with the story the metaphor supported.

Things came to a head (non-pussy) a couple of months ago when we noticed, despite all the promises from my brother Gay Bagel that we would be up to our necks in new advertisers, we had not a single one who had presented anything to the commune. I became curious, hoping like hell a conspiracy was involved, and it was a doozy, sir: Gay Bagel got all his advertising contracts from the shadiest, shittiest, most fly-by-night-non-batmen product people around. All this talk about raising the respectability of the commune, and this is what he had done—lined us up a bunch of cheaters and hoodlums I wouldn't have gone to myself. And I have extremely low standards where money is concerned.

When we settled our battle over the commune out of court, as you surely won't remember unless you were there, my part of the deal was the raise commune readership by a hundred percent. Well, I gave him 300%—we have easily four readers, at least, because I've met them at the commune Enthusiasts Club meeting. That's not counting all the other thousands of readers I see on the weekly ratings section—I'm not sure those are all that legitimate. Something else Gay was in charge of. But for his part, Gay gave us nothing back. Deal broken, in my book.

I told him our agreement had come to an end, in the most dramatic fashion possible—from atop Omar Bricks' mechanical bull desk. I nearly made my way entirely through my declaration, thirteen seconds, when I was bucked. That's an office record! But it was enough so Gay got the point anyway. He threatened to take me back to court. I suggested, however, than we settle this like men—nineteenth century men. Rapier fighting. He gasped in order, and I had to repeat myself, a little slower, and then he agreed to it.

I'm no slouch as a rapier wielder. I can carve my initials into an opponent in one swift motion, no big deal. But I can also leave my full mark, "Redward Bagel, Esquire." That's nothing to scoff at, although come to think of it, putting my favorite magazine after my full name may be just a little obnoxious. As for Gay's skills with a sword… they're passable.

So we met early in the morning, at the break of noon, just the two of us since none of the staff wanted to get up that early. We started the duel when the cock crowed, and since neither of us had brought a chicken, there was considerable waiting around. I kid you not, it was the rapier battle to end them all, one blade narrowly missing the other tubby body, swishes and fwips in the air like you've never heard. Both of us are now completely shaven, in all areas—that's how close it all was. I nearly died of excitement, and a deep stab just above my heart which I made with my own sword.

The ending was climactic, at least I climaxed. In the end, I blocked one of Gay's strikes with a foot and disarmed him, throwing his sword aside, useless as a eunuch's tool. I put the blade to his throat and spared his life on two conditions: One, that he relinquish all control to the commune, two, that he never tell dad. He's dead, but I don't want him hearing about it anyway.

So… the war of the Bagels is at an end. The victor: Me, Red "Victor" Bagel. And you must call me Victor.

So keep a close eye on everything here. Things are about to forever change—back to the way we used to run it all.

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