“That’s a two-hundred-dollar helmet, Stew, incidentally.”
“And there’s no access to this airshaft, Brock, incidentally. One … two … three …”
“All right,” he said, rising. “Have it your way. But I hope you’ll at least think about all I’ve been saying.”
“I’ve heard you out. Now I want you out. Out of my kitchen. Out of my life. Out of my consciousness. Do you understand? I’ll see you in hell before I engage you any further on the mortal sphere.” I dangled the helmet by its strap.
“Okay, okay. Just don’t say I didn’t try to — ”
“Now!” I said and threw the helmet at him.
That was the last time I saw my brother, the last time we saw each other.
Alive.
