Free Armageddon Conspiracy by john thompson Page B

moron.”
    “Which one of us went to Yale?”
    “A liberal moron. I rest my case.”
    Brent laughed and raised his hands in surrender, knowing Fred never admitted defeat in any contest nor gave an inch in any argument. When Fred was wrong—not an infrequent occurrence—he’d simply revert to foul language, insults, and name-calling until his opponent lost focus. He’d won dart-throwing, arm-wrestling, and beer-drinking contests over more able competitors simply because he needled them to distraction. The same was true with family arguments.
    “Did I ever tell you what a pain in the ass it was to grow up with an uncle who couldn’t stand to lose?” Brent asked.
    “You only whined about it maybe a thousand times. It was your way of thanking me for giving a wissy like you a sense of perseverance.”
    “That must have been it.”
    Fred finally cracked a smile, straightened, and slipped his clippers into his back pocket. “So, how’s the big-shot-money-man?” he asked as he straightened up, limped toward his nephew, threw his arms around him, and gave him a hug that left the front of Brent’s shirt stained with sweat.
    “Pretty good.”
    Fred eyed him a second then tossed his head. “Yeah, right,” he said. “And I’m rich and handsome.”
    “Everything’s fine,” Brent insisted.
    Fred walked up the back steps and through the screen door, letting it slam behind him. He came back out a moment later with two cans of Budweiser and handed one to Brent. “Don’t shit a shitter,” he said as he cracked his cold beer and sipped the foam off the top.
    “Really,” Brent insisted, trying to mean it.
    Fred went over and flopped into a cheap aluminum lawn chair. “Know who I saw the other day?”
    “Who?”
    “Maggie.”
    “That was quick.” Brent glanced at his watch. Usually it takes you at least five minutes to bring her up.”
    Fred sighed. “Man, she’s pretty.”
    Brent shrugged.
    “Pretty dumb move.”
    “She broke up with me. Remember?”
    “Only cause you were stupid.”
    Brent waved his beer. “’Preciate the support.”
    “Or decided you weren’t rich enough.”
    Brent looked at the curling paint on the back wall of the house. “There’s nothing wrong with having enough money to take a trip or paint your house.”
    “A: I don’t want to go anyplace, and B: there’s nothing wrong with letting it peel!”
    Brent shook his head.
    “I keep trying to tell you, and you keep trying not to believe me, but money ain’t gonna make your life any better. People in this neighborhood spend their whole lives on the clock, but they still get married and have kids. Money don’t make ‘em nicer. It don’t make ‘em live longer. It didn’t keep those other bastards in the Trade Center any safer than Harry.”
    “Maybe I’m doing something a lot more complicated than just grubbing for money. Ever think about that?”
    Fred shook his head. “Nope.”
    Brent let out a laugh. “Why didn’t you take your own advice, smart guy?”
    “What? Get married?” Fred looked at himself. “Who’da put up with me?”
    “Plenty of stupid women out there.”
    Fred became suddenly serious. He shrugged uncomfortably. “Putting out fires is dangerous—I don’t gotta tell you.” He turned to his flowers. “It hurts the people around you. Your mom—she wasn’t evil. She just couldn’t take it without your dad. Shit like that happens.”
    Brent swallowed. This was a subject he hated. He took a deep breath then pointed toward the stakes along the back fence. “Tomatoes look good.”
    Fred nodded. “Good call. Let’s talk about global warming, or the Yankees and how I hope the team plane goes down right into Stein-brenner’s fucking house when he’s in it.”
    Brent sucked down about half his beer and let out a silent belch. “These conversations are always a pleasure.”
    “You know, before you went off to that phony-ass west coast business school, you were gonna teach. What ever happened to