Bro Wars III: Revenge of the Biff

I’m really not the best at plans.

If my lame-brained attempt way back when to get Anne-Marie’s attention in the cafeteria was anything to go by, you probably shouldn’t even trust me to pick up the dry-cleaning. And now I’ve got the entire social hierarchy of Northwest Elm riding on my back. At least, when it comes to the brainlessly athletic who’s who of our next generation of businessmen, politicians, and mover-shakers. But you have to start somewhere.

So we started by dispensing beer at a ratio of three cans for every pool noodle.

The sheer mass of bouncing man-muscle displaces violent waves from the far corners of the vast, glass-ceiling concrete sink attached to the outside of Drake’s manor. Hollers, hoot, and taunts abound as the air screams with the whoosh-clap of foam-on-skin contact. Rainbow streaks blur at the end of vast, windmilling arms. Among the multitudinous methods of assailing someone with a pool noodle, the meta quickly boiled down to brief flurries with the implements themselves, paired with splash-based power attacks like waterbending.

Naturally, the swim team was dominating.

And I could tell it was getting under Drake’s skin. No matter how much relatively risk-free fun everyone else was having for once, it must have been pretty startling for him to arrive in a playing field where even I could compete with my twink body and pro gamer reflexes. The signs are obvious: From the slight crinkles around his nose to how he got just that bit quieter when it came time for the two of us to spar. Plus, there’s the way he’s been hitting me just that good bit harder than everyone else.

We’re 3 hits for 3 hits right now in a loose imitation of fencing. The scoring, of course, is administered by a less-than-enthusiastic Moe, whose step-uncle used to train in it for the ‘88 Seoul Olympics.

“En Garde,” he announces.

I ready my pink saber in a prime guard, and it slumps ever so delicately over into the water before me. Drake, on the other hand, cracks his neck and clutches his green implement at water level. I see a fire in his eyes, a seriousness that he probably usually only reserves for opponents that he actually respects. Frankly, it’s terrifying.

But the fact that I’ve managed to break even with him drives me forward.

He opens with a defensive wall of water. I push. Bearing the brunt of the first wave sideways, I weave through the second one that surges towards me. Just like the last six rounds, Drake underestimates my size. Overextending the shoulder that committed to his splash attacks, he can barely even see my first strike coming.

“Four to three,” Moe says, poorly hiding his relief. “That’s it for the best of seven.”

Drake’s fist meets the water like a cannonball. “Best of nine!”

I let out a cartoonishly loud, hammy yawn, and reply, “Nah, GG. I’m tired of this, bro.”

“That’s pussy shit, bro,” Drake barks. “We should do something that isn’t for little girls! Like manhunt!”

“Settle down there,” Moe replies. “If you can’t play nice you shouldn’t play at all.”

Drake’s grim sneer melts the moment he turns to nod to his second-in-command. Then, he admits:

“Well played.”

It doesn’t sound very genuine, but frankly that’s besides the point. No, that is the point. And now that he’s practically driven up the wall, it’s time for the signal. I let out a loud yawn.

“You know what. You’re right,” I say. “This feels kind of tame. What do you say we kick it up a notch?”

Drake scratches his head as wade to the edge of the water. I do my best to look cool as I come out, but I end up flopping over the tiled edge as a sputtering mess. Brushing boughs of water off of myself, I call out to Brian across the pool:

“Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

He strikes his opponent down mercilessly and turns to me with a military salute.

“Eye-eye captain,” he replies, making sure to wink really slowly at me.

In stark contrast to me, Brian emerges from the pool like a majestic beast, as if he was never wet to begin with but merely lightly glazed in tanning oil. I shiver off this despicable imbalance in the world and shoulder-nod him towards the duffel bag that contains the true first stage of our plan. To an audience of gaping eyes and slackened jaws, Brian returns bearing two polished wooden rods.

They’re bokken, to be more accurate.

But trying to get Brian to understand how Japanese characters work is like trying to teach a monkey to MacGuyver a car engine out of some duct tape and half a bicycle. So they’re basically just-

“Wood swords!” he shouts, duel-wielding both of them above his head in a whooshing flourish.

He throws me one, and we each perform a quick little spin with them to dazzle the crowds.

“What do you say, boys?” I ask. “This look interesting?”

The jocks cheer, to Moe’s growing concern and Drake’s stunned confusion.

I nod to Brian, and he nods to me in turn. We only get one go at this. One chance to steal the show.

Toweling off our feet for traction, we enter low stances and shout:

“ICHI, NI, SAN, SHI!”

Our swords meet with a lively clatter.

Squeaking like sneakers on linoleum, rattling like old floors, we go spinning around the pool side by the trailing tips of our blades. Admittedly, we didn’t have much time to practice the choreography. But Brian’s both physically gifted and a big fan of wrestling kay-fabe, and I’ve spent too much of my childhood whirling around plastic lightsabers to not at least look like I know the basics. All we have to do is sell it. A quick glance to the side confirms my best case scenario-an enraptured audience.

Now it’s time for the not-so-easy, not-so-fake part.

I pounce from the balls of my foot and lay a diagonal strike across Brian’s wide guard. He parries. My blade goes flying from my hands, and I’m left wide open. I clench my teeth and cross my arms over my chest. His blade closes in.

THWACK!

The impact sends my forearms flying upwards, and when they come down they bear one continuous red welt between the two of them. My skin is engulfed in a numb burn, and I can still feel my shoulders shaking even a good ten seconds after contact. But I raise my head high.

“Mark it down,” I say, nodding to an astonished Moe. “One-zero, Brian leads.”

The jocks are dead silent until I march over to my blade and pick it back up into ready position. And then they cheer their throats hoarse. Pretending that an aspirin is going to tackle both six inches worth of bruise and a roaring headache later tonight, I face my opponent once more. And, at the top of my lungs, I scream:

“ICHI NI SAN-”

“SHI!” answers Brian, meeting my blade.

We twirl and clash. Diagonals, parallels, and reversals. For a pale imitation of Zoro, I feel awfully proud of my swordsmanship. In between an upper-left parry and a downwards slash, I catch Brian right in his right bicep.

“One-one!” he yells, resetting into stance as he winces at his fresh mark of honor.

The jocks go feral once more. Moe murmurs to himself before confirming the score. He gives me a sour glare, as if he’s disappointed in me. But I’m used to disappointing anyone who’s worth my time. So I shrug it off and commence the next round.

It’s a sickeningly efficient and calculated match. Wherever we’d misstep from our rehearsal, we’d need to innovate an equally flashy and novel way to make the other person scream out in pain. And whenever we’d reset, we’d need to keep stern, noble faces without a single hint of anger. It’s psychopathic. But the more cold and dedicated we come off, the more the plan takes effect. By the time we can barely stand from the pain, Moe’s dour mug is buried in its own shadows.

“That’s enough!” He yells out. “Four-three. Winner, Brian!”

We bow.

Cheers. No, screams. Primal, wild, and utterly absorbed in the spectacle.

My neck is shaking so hard that I can only turn in twists and jerks, but I feel blessed to be born into this world. There isn’t enough heroin in the world to describe the feeling I get when I soak in the absolute astonishment on Drake’s face as my cold eyes meet his.

Brian thrusts his triumphant sword into the air and yells, “Who’s next?!”

And the crowd is suddenly at a loss for enthusiasm.

I cough up what I hope isn’t blood into a towel and add, “What’s the matter, Drake, feeling scared?”

He jumps out of the water like a cracked-out seal. “You callin’ me a pussy, bro?”

“Nah,” I reply, “But you are what you eat, I guess.”

The crowd’s devious giggles are like caltroped static.

He’s riled up, he’s out of his element, he’s embarrassed. But we haven’t won yet. No, not until part B of our plan.

Drake throws his massive arms up and starts wading to the poolside. “That’s it bro, I’m tired of this shit.”

“Leaving so soon?” I ask. “Because we were just about to move onto the next activity.”

“I’m not playing your little girl games.”

My smirk reaches from ear to ear, and I reply:

“Guess you’re too manly to play spin the bottle, then.”