The Adventures of Binky and Porky

The Adventures of Binky and Porky
WC 297

My kid brother and me are hiding in the outhouse behind the abandoned Baxter farm. The two-holer stinks to high heaven even after a gazillion years of not being used. Lucky us.

I peek through the rotting wooden slats and see red and blue flashing lights in the distance.

"It's the cops, Binky!"

Binky is thirteen. His given name is Vatslav (after our late father), but my mother started calling him Binky when he was a baby. “Binky” was the brand name of his pacifier.

"This isn't going to be good, Porky," Binky whispers through gritted teeth, which is quite a feat with his massive overbite (from years of sucking on his Binky).

My given name is Rutger (after my dad’s dad, also deceased), but Mom calls me Porky. Again with the nicknames. No, I’m not fat. Our mom has a bit of a cruel streak running through her veins.

"Let's make a run for it, before we pass out."

"Why run? We didn't do anything wrong," Binky says. He does have a point.

"Then why are we hiding in a stinky outhouse, anyway?"

"I just followed you, Porky. You're the leader."

I am. I’m two years older than him.

Although we have not done anything wrong (that I know of), we exit the outhouse running, just in case the cops think we did. We high tail it for home.

Three cop cars are parked in front of our house, lights flashing. Our mom is standing on the porch, handcuffed. You never know with my mom.

I see her motion with her eyes for us to split before the cops see us. So we do.

I guess we’ll break into the Baxter’s farmhouse and stay there for as long as we need to.

Pretty gnarly, huh?