Free Red Meat Cures Cancer by Starbuck O'Dwyer Page B

act.
    “What are you doing here?” I asked, grimacing in the grip of my pungent sibling while trying not to sound too inhospitable.
    “You invited me.”
    “I know, but your job with FARC seemed to be going so well, I guess I didn’t expect to see you so soon. What happened with El Jefe?”
    “I was working as his bodyguard and he sort of got shot on my watch, so I quit.”
    “You quit?”
    “Fled might be a more accurate word.”
    “They chased you? Are you all right?”
    “Of course. I’m fine.”
    “Did they try and kill you?”
    “Only for a while. Right until they ran out of ammunition actually.”
    “My God, King. C’mon inside,” I said, opening the front door.
    To say my brother had personal issues was a bit of an understatement, like saying Michael Jordan was a decent basketball player. Still, as hard as I tried, I could never stay mad at him. There’s something undeniably winning about a stark raving mad lunatic. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but King clearly qualified.
    “Can I stay with you for a while?”
    “Of course you can. (Pause) Those maniacs aren’t still chasing you, are they?”
    “Highly unlikely.”
    “This is not going to endanger my life?”
    “Doubtful. Hey, they never got Rushdie, did they?”
    By drifting all over the world, both literally and figuratively, on various political crusades and, alternatively, on luxury cruise lines, King had picked up bits and pieces of various Western and Eastern philosophies which he had blended together to form his life view. This would have been more than acceptable had he not insisted on serving this indigestible smorgasbord to every person he encountered, including his own brother.
    “Wow. I hate to say it, Sky, but the corporate life and all those Tailburgers with cheese have taken a huge toll on you.”
    King and I stood in the kitchen now, sizing each other up after several years of separation.
    “You used to be the pretty one, but I’m afraid the mantle has been passed to your big bro.”
    King decided to inventory the refrigerator.
    “Look at all these processed meats. Do you have any idea what the sodium content is in this stuff? Where are the fruits and veggies?”
    “There’s ketchup in there,” I said defensively.
    King’s idea of healthy eating at this point in his life (subject to change at any time) was anything made of soy. His idea of healthy living (also subject to change at any time) was Qigong.
    “After I left Carnival, I spent some time with the Falun Gong in Beijing and I’m telling you, those people have life figured out. Are you familiar with Qigong?”
    “Chee koong? No.”
    “Well, it’s this series of meditation exercises that channel your chi.”
    “My chee?”
    “Your fundamental energy. See, Falun Gong blends the best parts of Taoism, Buddhism and Qigong together. It’s like a spiritual juicer, but without all the cleanup. You’ve got to try it.”
    “My chee is just fine, thank you. And I have no interest in having my spirit juiced.”
    “Hear me out. See there’s this orblike miniature of the universe located in your abdomen called the Falun. And these exercises bring positive energy to the Falun, which improves your health and morality.”
    “All that’s going on in my abdomen, huh? Hard to believe there’s room, considering that huge cheesesteak I had at lunch.”
    “I think this could work for you.”
    “I think you’re out of your fucking mind.”
    “We’ve just got to harness the unseen natural forces in your body.”
    “King, you’ve just described a fart. Leave it to the Chinese to build a philosophy around gas.”
    “There are Qigong masters who can cure cancer with a jolt from their fingertips.”
    “You’ve obviously spent a few too many days baking on the Aloha deck.”
    “Will you at least try this?”
    “No way. Why the hell should I try this?”
    “To get in better shape. Physically and mentally. Do you plan on being alone the rest of your