"Parable of the Switchblade" by Saeed Jones

"Blood brothers, you might say."

You’ve got a friend.

Let’s call him Bob. Best friends since high school. You tell lesser friends and tolerated family that you can’t even what it felt like being you before Bob was your best friend. They give you a look when you say this. You ignore their looks. They just don’t get it. To be honest, though you’d never say it, you pity them. A person who has never had a Bob of their own is a pathetic person. A person who hasn’t earned the friendship of a Bob is thin as an incomplete sentence.

Again, you never say this, but that doesn’t stop people from hearing it.

Everyone knows you and Bob are a package deal. Blood brothers, you might say. The thing is, Bob doesn’t always play well with others. In fact, he’s got a bit of a temper. Everyone in the neighborhood knows.

You live a few blocks over, but Bob has a next door neighbor named Gary. Bob hates Gary. Just hearing Gary’s name or seeing Gary’s green Honda go by pisses Bob off.

“Who the fuck would pick a GREEN Honda?” Bob often rants.

Things have gotten tense between Bob and Gary. And Gary has no idea.

Gary mostly keeps to himself, minds his own business. He likes to go the movies with his family on Fridays. You think Gary is pretty nice. But you’ve learned not to say nice things about Gary in front of Bob. If you do, you’re signing up for another drunken rant from Bob. It gets boring after a while. You tune him out. You’ve been Bob’s best friend long enough you’ve earned the right to tune him out. Occasionally.

You never say this.

Lately, Bob has been acting… weird. It’s getting awkward. Other friends have asked you to stop inviting Bob to poker night. This stuns you. It’s offensive, honestly. Poker night without Bob? The world has gone mad.

You calm yourself, or think you do. You smile, or think you smile, and say “He’s just going through a rough patch.” You think you hear wisdom in your voice.

Your friends sigh. “Dude, we’re all going through a rough patch right now,” they say.

Time passes, and Bob has been talking shit about Gary on the neighborhood message board. You had no idea! You say you had no idea. Bob has been writing some crazy shit and threatening to do worse. It’s actually kind of creepy. He brags about wanting to do awful things.

You tell concerned neighbors “He’s in dark place, I know. But I can’t give up on him.”

“Well, have you talked to him about this shit?”

You complain about the new HOA rule on lawn-care to change the subject. Your neighbors look at you like you’ve lost your mind, but they agree that the new rule about flags is ridiculous.

Summer bleeds into fall, Bob goes from bad to worse. And the neighbors are over it. The neighbors invite Gary to poker night. Gary is so excited! He even brings queso! The neighbor’s fucking LOVE queso.

Then Bob walks in.

It all happens quickly and in slow motion. Bob gets in his first punch before Gary even sees the fist coming at his face like a missile. Gary has him pinned on the floor before you even get up from the table.

You see blood.

When you and Bob were kids, he was thin as an incomplete sentence. Your dad was a boxer. You started teaching Bob everything you knew about how to fight. And you knew a lot. Fighting was the only thing your dad taught you.

Bob has one hell of a right hook. He likes to joke that his fists are widow-makers. He makes this joke way too often.

You try to pull Bob off Gary. He pushes you away, gives you a look that you haven’t seen before. You freeze. You’re locked inside yourself. Walter, another neighbor, wedges his body between Gary and Bob. “Stop! You’ve got to stop!” Walter says right before he gets punched. And punched. And punched.

Bob reaches into his pocket and pulls out the switchblade you got him as a gift a few years back. Pearl handle, very expensive.

Here’s where I end the story because it’s on you, reader.

Reader, it’s on you to end this story.

Reader, I’m begging you to help me end this story.