My dad was mean, right?

So, we grew up scared of him.

One time during high school, my younger brother and I stayed out past our curfew.

The next day, our dad saw us and started yelling angrily—spazzing out, veins popping, the whole deal.

He was really upset.

He charged toward us, got close, and raised his hand to hit my brother.

But as he swung, my brother caught his hand midway.

My brother snapped and yelled, “I dare you!”

He was tired. Fed up.

He yelled back at Dad with a few warnings and then walked off.

I just stood there with my mouth open. Lol.

From that day on, my dad left us alone.

I watched my brother change the dynamics of our relationship with him in that moment.

Dad never raised his voice again.

My younger brother saved us.

He saved me. Imagine that.

It all begins with an idea.

That same night, there was this annual party at a new bowling center, and everyone was going to be there.

It’s around 10-ish. I’m in the car—angry and on my way.

There’s this stench of evil swimming around me.

Many wicked thoughts.

My heart is beating faster as I dwell on the situation.

I was livid.

My best friend and I are going over what happened and how we’re going to deal with them.

He’s laying out the plan, and I can’t believe the things he’s saying.

I mean, I knew my best friend was crazy; I just didn’t know he was borderline Stalin.

You’d think I’d know better—after all, we’ve been shot at, at some party in New Jersey.

The number of fights we’ve been involved in is just insane.

So many wild, life-threatening stories.

You’d think I’d know by now.

This guy is bat-shhh crazy.

I love this guy.

This is my best friend.

But there was no way I was going to let this plan go through.

Oh Hell No.

Wanted revenge, just not that bad.