Brats Narrative

I woke up in a good mood that morning. Everything just seemed to be going my way. Feeling chipper and agreeable, I decided to take my time getting ready. After a long shower and a little bit of TV while getting dressed, I emerged from my bedroom fresh and clean, ready to start the day. Then I saw Phil and Lil.

In the time it had taken me to shower, shave and dress, the brats had managed to make a cataclysmic mess of my kitchen in an effort to find the sweets I had tucked away for myself. The freezer door was hanging open after the brats pawed their way to my cherry popsicles. The pantry door was also open. Half its contents were on the floor when the brats apparently tried to grab my stash of candy bars on the top shelf. My coffee and cookies n’cream ice cream cartons, both mostly empty, were melting on the

counter. The brats had messily spooned themselves heaping servings of ice cream and then left the remainder of the ice cream to melt. Several boxes of cereal had also been overturned on the counter, the cereal piled in heaps.

My head began to pulse as my blood pressure rose to levels that were once biologically unreachable. I turned and headed towards the brats’ “room” outside in the backyard. At some point in the morning, the brats had managed to remove the bolt that secured the entrance to their “room”. Neither Phil or Lil were in their little “room”; they were probably camped out in some part of my house enjoying their snacks.

I walked back into the house and quietly closed the back door behind me. I then headed for the most logical place for the brats to be: the guest bedroom. And they were there, lying on a huncher watching TV, the food they had taken from me without asking surrounding them. Both Phil and Lil had wide grins on their faces – as well as the chocolatey remains of the ice cream and candy bars they had eaten. I intended to turn those smiles upside down.

Sneaking behind the brats as quietly as possible, I reached my foot out in front of me and gave the huncher the biggest kick I could manage. Both the huncher and the spoiled brats careened towards the wall and hit it with a mighty thud. The impact caused the TV to fall over on the huncher and explode. There was lots of smoke and sparks but alas – no fire.

“You brats!” I yelled, kicking the food. Empty candy bar wrappers and sticky bowls of ice cream flew to the air and landed in various parts of the room. Phil and Lil hadn’t yet started the cute routine. They had probably been knocked unconscious by the impact with the wall and the TV falling on top of them. “You spoiled rotten brats!” I repeated, a little louder.

Ear-splitting ‘WAHs’ suddenly filled the room. The brats, it seems, had come out of their unconsciousness. “You hurt us! We want a hug!” said Lil. She and Phil stood up with their arms outstretched. They were pouting in their cutesipoo way as tears dribbled down their miserable faces.

“Do you want a hug, kids? C’mere. I’m sorry I mistreated you!” I said, kneeling on the floor with my arms outstretched. Thinking that they finally had ‘Daddy’ wrapped around their little fingers, Phil and Lil ran towards me. Just before they were able to reach my embrace, I grabbed both Phil and Lil by the arms and jerked them to the side, which started another round of ‘WAHs’.

“There will be no hugs. Instead, you brats are going to get the spanking of your lives!” I yelled. As Phil and Lil blubbered in protest, I untaped their diapers and laid Lil over my knee. WHOP! WHOP! WHOP! WHOP! WHOP! WHOP! WHOP! Then, ‘WAHs’ from Lil. It was Phil’s turn. He was still blubbering and making empty threats about suing. I turned him over my knee and let him have it. WHOP! WHOP! WHOP! WHOP! WHOP! WHOP! WHOP! Then, ‘WAHs’ from both brats. I’m sure the spankings had hurt; their butts were an angry cherry-red color and my hand stung.

“Alright! Alright; that’s enough crying, brats. Now you get your sorry butts down those stairs and start cleaning up that kitchen. NOW!” I demanded. Both Phil and Lil hung their heads and walked out of the room, sniffling the entire way. I followed the brats downstairs to make sure that they actually cleaned up their mess. At one point, Phil stopped walking because he needed to go to the bathroom. I kicked him in the butt, which elicited another round of ‘WAHs’, and told him to hurry the hell up.

Phil and Lil cleaned up my kitchen within an hour. I stood over them the entire time, threatening a spanking and other general physical threats if they dared to stop for anything. Once their unhappy task had been completed, I diapered both the brats and locked them in the closet. This, of course, began the third or fourth barrage of ‘WAHs’ of the day. But when I yelled ‘SHUT UP!’ at the top of my lungs, both brats miraculously stifled their cutiespoo crying.

For a little while, everything in my house was quiet. The brats eventually quit their sniffling, having seen that their cute act would have no effect, and quietly sat in the closet. I had just settled down to some work on my computer when I heard the distinctive sound of brats giggling. My blood pressure instantly spiked as I got up from my desk to check on Phil and Lil.

Phil really had needed to pee; he had managed to find my ISM uniform and empty the contents of his bladder on it. Now so infuriated that I wasn’t thinking clearly, I jerked both brats up off the floor by the hair. I hardly heard their ‘WAHs’ of pain as I angrily stomped to the kitchen.

Once there, I threw the brats into my freezer and slammed the door. Both brats began to beat against the door yelling ‘let us out!’ I punched the freezer door with all my strength and then yelled, “Stay in there, you spoiled sons of bitches!” I then ran to take care of my soiled uniform. No damage had been done that a good dry cleaning couldn’t fix, but that brat Phil had gone too far.

About half an hour later, I went back in the kitchen to check on Phil and Lil. When I opened the door, I found both of them huddled in the far corner of the freezer compartment shivering violently. “You both look cold,” I said to them, “Why don’t we get you brats warmed up a bit?” I grabbed the brats and pulled them out of the freezer. Their bodies were like ice cubes; it hurt to hold them.

I opened the door of the microwave and threw the brats inside, slamming the door. I then activated the microwave and set it to twenty minutes. At first, Phil and Lil seemed intrigued with the heat and light generated inside the microwave unit – they stood up in the compartment and embraced the warmth engulfing them. Seconds later, however, microwave energy began to penetrate their gingerbread skin. Crying in doubtless agony, both brats began to pound on the microwave door, interspersing ‘WAHs’ between pleas to ‘let us out’. I chose instead to watch my spoiled brats bake in the microwave.

I let them bake for a few minutes before I turned the microwave off. When I opened the door, a large screen of smoke blew into my face, slightly stinging my nose and eyes. Phil and Lil’s normal cinnamon-brown coloring had been replaced with the familiar dark-brown color of food that had been cooked for too long. Their clothes had caught fire; what hadn’t badly burned their skin had fallen off, leaving ashy remains in the microwave compartment. Lil’s bow had shriveled in the heat and then ignited, burning off Lil’s hair and causing a serious burn on the top of her head. The brats’ diapers had melted on their bodies and left behind nasty burns and scars. Remarkably enough, however, both brats had survived their cooking in the microwave.

I opened the back door and indifferently tossed the brats outside.

Perhaps they had finally learned to stop being such spoiled rotten brats. I returned to my work and when that was done, watched a little TV and drank some Dr. Pepper. It was nice not having to worry about brats.

At some point, I dozed off. What woke me up was the sound of Phil and Lil eating something. I got up from the couch and walked to the den to see what was happening. The brats had managed to get their hands on Happy Meals from McDonalds. They were sitting on my den couch, smiling and eating their food. It was then that I noticed that both Phil and Lil were wearing headphones. Someone had given them a small TV, which they were watching with headphones.

In my kitchen, a woman wearing a STACA (‘Save The Abused Children of America’) T-shirt was sitting in front of my phone, writing in a notebook. It looked as though she were getting ready to make a call to STACA headquarters. In no time, a squadron of indulgent STACA jackasses would be swarming my property, threatening to have me arrested and reported child protective services while spoiling Phil and Lil rotten. I wouldn’t have

it.

I ran to my bedroom closet and obtained the Dragon assault rifle I had bought a few years ago. I quietly loaded a round of ammunition into it and then snuck into the kitchen from the far side. The woman had finished her notes; she was now holding the receiver and looking up the number for family services. I opened fire. The woman’s life ended in a spray of semi-automatic gunfire. Her lifeless body, now dripping with blood, dropped out of the chair and onto the floor. I heard Phil and Lil gasp in the next room. They were trying to beat a hasty retreat to their “room” before I could catch them. “You spoiled brats are next.” I said, glaring at them.

Sure enough, the woman was some representative of STACA. She had been writing down Phil and Lil’s accounts of abuse so that she could report it all to STACA. The last thing she had written in her notebook before dying was

THESE KIDS NEED TO GET OUT OF THIS UNHEALTHY ENVIRONMENT NOW. RECOMMEND WORKING WITH CHILD PROT. SERVICES TO KEEP FATHER AWAY FROM KIDS.

I gently set my Dragon on the kitchen table and walked into the den. Phil and Lil slowly looked up to my face in dread. They knew that a severe punishment was coming their way. After pitching their McDonalds meals out the window, I jerked Phil and Lil off of the floor and wordlessly headed for my room closet. There was a live grenade hidden in my closet that I had saved in case of a break-in. I grabbed the grenade and headed out to the back yard.

Deep in the woods behind my house was a well that hadn’t pumped good water since 1987. I had covered it after moving in only to keep animals from accidentally falling into the well. I removed the well cover with a flick of my hand. “Since you kids can’t seem to stay in my house for any length of time before acting like obnoxious spoiled brats, I think this should be your new home” I yelled. I then tossed both Phil and Lil headfirst into the well. They screamed for the entire fifteen foot drop, before impacting with the cold concrete floor. Then, Phil and Lil’s ‘WAHs’, muffled a bit but almost as sharp as usual, began to emanate from the well.

As Phil and Lil wasted their energy screaming “We want out!”, I yanked the pin off of the grenade and held it for a second. Would this finally be the end of my problems? I then allowed the detonation clip to return to its normal position and dropped the grenade into the well.

The ground quaked slightly as I heard a muffled WHAM. There was a bright flash inside the well before the above-ground well architecture itself collapsed. The ground began to sink slightly as the concrete innards that had held the well together exploded and fractured, causing a cave-in. Even if Phil and Lil had survived the grenade blast, they were going to be buried under the rubble from the explosion.

I fell to the ground. My problems were over; the brats were gone! Permanently. I almost screamed at the top of my lungs, but stopped short when I realized that the neighbors might walk over to investigate. I chose instead to clean up the body in my kitchen.

It took over an hour and quite a bit of cleaning, but I was able to clean up the bloody mess in my kitchen. I used some acid that eats through organic flesh to dissolve the body and therefore erase any evidence of someone being killed in my house. I also took the time to remove the McDonalds food that I had thrown out the window two hours previously. I then sat down on my couch, cracked open an ice cold can of Dr. Pepper, and enjoyed an episode of Star Trek.

About ten minutes into the episode, I began to hear strange noises outside. Beginning to wonder if I had left the back door open in my hurry to clean up the remains of the STACA bitch, I got up to close and lock the door. I nearly fell out when I found the source of the noise: Phil and Lil.

The brats had somehow survived! Scratched up and looking as though they were fighting some tremendous pain, Phil and Lil were crawling on all fours to my back door, intending to get into the house so that they could call 911.

“Well well well…” I said, crouching down to the brats’ level, “Look who the cat dragged in. How in holy hell did you brats survive that well caving in on top of you?” Lil looked up at me. Her face was both bloody and dirty. Her left eye was squinted shut; it had either been gouged or scraped by a piece of concrete. “You hurt us, Daddy.” She said simply. Phil crawled up beside his sister. “We’re going to sue. That hurt!” he said, looking up at me. Phil was in worse shape than Lil; his nose was broken, his face was cut in several places, and his right arm was broken.

I picked both the brats up off of the ground and, holding them at arm’s length, brought them inside. “You brats are supposed to be dead. I intended for that grenade to end your inconsequential little lives” I said. I dropped Phil and Lil on the couch and headed to my bedroom to get them both a fresh diaper. Once they had both been diapered, I once again tossed them out into the back yard, locked the door, and returned to Star Trek.

Tired, because it was the end of a frustrating day, I left for Subway and had myself an Italian BMT and a large Coke. I returned home and watched Star Trek until I decided to go to bed. The day was over, but my troubles were only beginning…..