~o*oOo*o~

Essentially a charming escapade of a long and bloody war between two children, or rather their sexually-depraved fathers.

For 91RedRoses, my Beta and good friend. (Check out her stuff if you're in need of a laugh.) She requested that I write something funny for a change (essentially because my story list is doom, doom, chibi sadness, and more doom).

Sufficient to say, there are certain questions in this life whose answers will forever elude me. I will likely never know how birds learn to fly to warmer climates in the winter or how spiders know how to weave their webs. Or how a country as nice as Canada can repeatedly produce horrible music and unleash it on rest of the world in what I imagine is pure spite.

Even in the fascinating and colossal realm of science, I think there invariably comes a time when we're ramming our heads against a wall (the first of many welcome alternatives to listening to a Justin Beiber song) for right answers, maybe because we've failed to ask the right question the right way.

Instead, we develop our own truths, which most philosophy majors and self-help books (for the price of 14.99) will advise you to do. Eventually there comes a time in our children's incessant questioning—or perhaps our own—that we have to shrug and say, "Well, I wonder about that too, but that's just the way it is."

But one of the queries that vexes me most is how a man can loathe his neighbor as much as he does.

You're likely staring at your screen in the hopes of discovering a feel-goodsy tale with silly antics coming from a writer, whom, you are probably well-aware prefers more wholesome things. Usually poorly constructed, endlessly repetitive sentences on obsession and murder/sadomasochism.

But for a dear friend, I can smile and invite you to nuke your headmeat with a heart-warming story of hatred and violence. This will hopefully distract me from the fact that I am currently writing less of it than desirable.

~o*oOo*o~

Francis Bonnefoy and his little son Matthew moved to a new neighborhood the year Matthew was due to begin preschool. Francis was French, one reason women threw themselves at him, and an excellent chef, which was a reason the customers at the restaurants he worked at offered to leave tips of a different nature than the monetary kind. But still involving the word "tips."

He had a young, good-natured face, usually a bit of stubble on it, was tall and lean. He had recently left Quebec in the hopes of higher pay in the states, alongside a little child who'd been born as a result of a fling with a waitress. Francis, being very Catholic on the occasions that he was drunk enough to forget that he was a Protestant, asked her to have the child for him to raise. The jilted lady might have only allowed this as last revenge, because Francis Bonnefoy knew nothing of babies other than that they were better female magnets than a good hairdo and a Ferrari combined.

He followed advice four hundred years old and slipped some wine into Matthew's formula to get him through the pain of teething. Or it might've possibly been ill humors. It was hard to tell, but Francis was nervous of bloodletting and leeches so he defaulted to spirits.

But Matthew grew up very well, if a little timid. He had never been asked to play with the other children in his old town, and was typically ignored when he did slip into their games. He had sandy blond hair and pale skin, bright blue eyes that were clearly his father's. That isn't to say Matthew sneaked into his bedroom at the dead of night and stole them off his face before pushing his screaming father into an oven, you sicko.

So he was excited when the moving van pulled into their new drive and he glimpsed a near-identical boy looking up from his play next door and waving. Without a hint of reserve the child hurried over, not bothering to move out of the way as moving men trembling under credenzas avoided tripping over him.

"Hiya!"

"H-hi."

They chatted for a little while, then his father called him into the house and the boy scurried in, promising on his way to stop by later. Matthew was nervous and a little overwhelmed-the boy had barely let him to draw breath in his attempts to speak-but he was very nice. And it would be wonderful to have a friend his age so close by.

The boy's name was Alfred F. Jones. When you left out the 'F' in his name, he was prone to emphatically stomping on your toes. He liked race cars and wanted to be a superhero when he grew up, as his dreams and childish whimsy had not yet been crushed by hideous works written by authors such as myself who insist on making an entire sentence very awkward and long-winded.

Alfred's parents had been savaged by bears, so he'd lived with his English godfather Arthur Kirkland since he was three months old. A man of short stature, with sharp green eyes and eyebrows as thick as gorilla thumbs, Arthur was a librarian. A stiff, exacting fellow who hadn't expected his godfather duties to be necessary, but was a good and affectionate guardian nonetheless. He'd helped raise his little brothers and believed very strongly that reading to children early on made them less likely to become violent sociopaths. Alfred was a very energetic child who found difficulty keeping still, but Arthur found that you could keep him enthralled with a good story concerning heroes.

While not being artistic himself, he arranged little craft socials at the library that helped children make hand-puppets or wind chimes after story hour. He luxuriated in his quiet hours to the point of workaholism, but he understood the importance of his duty to be certain to cut them occasionally for a day at the park. He hailed from London and claimed that he lived in America only because his hometown was one of the most expensive in the world, but in reality probably stayed because dates were so delighted with his charming accent they were willing to overlook his awkward behavior.

In terms of failures he had little, if you overlook the fact that now and again he'd slip rum into the warm milk he gave Alfred after a nightmare, and his cooking. Though to be completely frank, his cooking might have been grounds for Alfred's being taken away by the Children's Welfare institute in their country, because every time Alfred heard fire engines wailing, he headed to the dinner table. Ba-dum-chik. And it was rare for Alfred to ask if anyone was coming to dinner, because the only guests they usually entertained were the paramedics.

Later that evening, Alfred watched as his father pulled a casserole dish out of the oven. "Doesn't that smell nice? You know the two things I make well are meat loaf and apple pie."

"Which one is that?" He asked, sidling along as Arthur wrapped it in tinfoil.

Now, it must be said Mr. Kirkland went up to the Bonnefoy house with good intentions. It's nice to welcome a new neighbor, particularly with a dish to someone who doesn't have their kitchen set up. Alfred swung his hand in his, grinning from ear to ear.

Mr. Bonnefoy greeted them at the door with a gracious beam, and Matthew smiled shyly from where he half-hid behind his father's leg. They were invited in.

God only knows what happened that night. It might have been that Francis was tired from telling people where to put his things all day. It might have been that their personalities just weren't compatible or that the chef saw the dish as an insult and/or a sign of ill omen from a man so in adept at cooking that he found bones in his toast. Maybe Arthur believed that owning seventeen ceramic Gallic roosters was one too many. It might have had something to do with the fact that Arthur's half-mad Grandad used to shout that French people needed to be put into camps when he wasn't screaming obscenities at the cat.

Whatever the reason, the result was not changed: Arthur stormed from the house covered in burnt food, shouting curses at a man who bellowed them back in turn, and in French, therefore making them more effective.

Alfred happily waved back at Matthew, who had rushed up the stairs to avoid the conflict and was now goggling at the retreating visitors. He uncertainly waved back as the two disappeared into their house and wondered at how things could have gone as badly as they did.

As murder was illegal in their state, the two men could only practically contemplate revenges that didn't involve maiming or kneecapping, which was disappointing. Fuming, after he put Alfred to bed Arthur poured himself a glass of rum and tried to entertain himself with Hamlet, the play of a boy avenging his father. This particular evening the story was very satisfying, and he reread the passage of Hamlet's uncle being killed several times.

Meanwhile, just a few feet away, Francis tried to comfort himself with a bottle of wine, a plate of cheese and crackers, to little avail. His teeth were set on edge, grinding and the only comfort was that Arthur's blood was probably boiling over.

He turned on the television, flicking through the channels until he came upon a Japanese film that made him his finger pause over the + button. It was early enough on in the movie that he could quickly understand what it was about; a young samurai seeking to avenge his murdered father.

"With him who has slain his father, a son should not live under the same sky," An allegedly wise old man quoted Confucius solemnly at the youth. Francis rightly guessed that the determined man would succeed in his mission, especially when he had such heroic background music surrounding him, but the plot was soothing. He leaned back against the sofa and smirked. Why get his beautiful face all out of sorts by doing anything?

Perhaps the epiphany touched them at the same time-perhaps it was the alcohol-but in either case it was decided that Matthew Bonnefoy and Alfred Jones-aaaaccck! MY FOOT! MY FOOT!-would be blood enemies. A vendetta stamped in crimson, as old as the families themselves. As bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword. They would never rest until they succeeded over the other, for none could live whilst the other survived.

Before going to sleep, Matthew knelt to say his prayers. "Um, God? Thanks for lettin' me meet Alfred. I hope he will be a good friend and play with me at school and not call me names. And please don't let me wet my pants there. Amen." And he crawled into bed beside his polar bear, grateful for his nightlight.

Snuggled beside his stuffed bunny, Alfred hummed in his sleep, dreaming of when he could show Matthew how many times he could swing a hoolla hoop around his waist.

The first day of preschool came with much trepidation on everyone's parts, everyone being Mr. Kirkland and Mr. Bonnefoy.

"Now, the first day will be a little short, so Daddy will come to get you at twelve thirty," Arthur said anxiously as he helped Alfred put on his new Batman backpack. "Okay? You'll eat your snack and have a nap before you come home. Alright? We'll stop by the library and you can tell me all about your day."

Hopping up and down, Alfred nodded. "Kay-kay."

"Don't be scared."

"Alright."

"It'll be fine."

"I know."

Arthur nodded, face chalky-white. His humors were likely out of balance.

The Bonnefoys came out at the same time as they did, the two boys greeting each other as the men strapped them into their seats, glowering at each other. It must be said that it's difficult to effectively look someone in the eyes with death carved in them whilst strapping in four years squealing, "Papa! That's not right!" Or gasping, "Tootighttootightcan't breathe!"

Francis waited until Arthur came out of the driveway to cut him off, and Arthur retorted with an angry horn blast. Francis displayed his middle finger, and when Matthew asked what that meant Francis threw him a dollar to forget it, therefore ensuring that he never did.

The cars kept swerving ahead of each other at every interval, and by the time the two cars arrived in the parking lot they'd caused no less than three traffic altercations. Matthew was kissed repeatedly on the cheeks as Francis clutched him, so tightly he was beginning to look like a radish. "Mon cheri, remember our oath: To love one another intensely and forever even as the sun eclipses to dusk. I love you." His eyes watering, he slammed his child underneath his chin. "So much."

"Papa, you're frightening me."

"So much, Matthew."

They lead their children in and introduced themselves to Ms. Angie, a pleasant, dark-skinned woman with a curious accent. Not quite French, but Mr. Bonnefoy was already thinking of smooth-chatting her, if only to make certain Matthew got the best scissors for art time.

This passion was swiftly dulled as Alfred led Matthew over to look at a train track over at the toy area, and, looking at them curiously, the teacher named Ms. Angie asked, "Are those two twins? Are you married?"

This produced such a series of exclamations that the Seychellen had never heard in all her years of minding crowds of shrieking two-to-five years. Weakly she held up her hands the moment they drew breath to breathlessly interject, "I understand, this I understand, you are not wed..."

"I'd rather rip my tongue off and paint a boat," Arthur sneered.

"I'd sooner carve my name into his back with an ice pick."

"A-heh...um, well, l-let's not have any rude talk around the children..."

Arthur turned to Francis. "You know, she's quite right." He bowed. "Pardon me, old chap, but it has come to my attention that you're an enormous douchecanoe."

"Now, no need for-!"

Francis smiled. "How lovely! Merci beaucoup, my fine friend. And might I return that you are a yellow-bellied, rat jackass? By the way, I'll tell you in advance Mr. Kirkland wholly approves of you handing out extra homework to his son for bad behavior-"

He did, actually, but he'd never let him get away with that. "And I'll have you know that Mr. Bonnefoy fully endorses the use of corporal punishment if his boy speaks out of turn!"

As the bell rang Ms. Angie gingerly lead out the two parents by lightly but firmly pressing hands to their backs and shooing them to the door. "Now sirs, I'll call you if there are any concerns, please have a good day and we'll see you at noon..."

"Alfred!" Arthur yelped, making the boy look up. "Alfred, don't cry, it'll be alright, Daddy loves you!"

The fact that his father was leaving hit him fully for the first time and Alfred ran over to hug his father's, suddenly fearful. "No! I love you, Daddy!"

Arthur grinned a huge, creepy grin at Francis, a grin akin to an unsettling uncle's no longer allowed at the family reunion.

Whilst Matthew was nervous, very nervous, he'd gotten used to his Papa working long hours. It wasn't being alone so much that scared him as it was making some faux pas, or making no friends. Very proud of himself, he swallowed his tears and said, "Have a good day, Daddy."

"Matthew! Say that you love me more! For god's sakes, say that you love me more!"

Tearing up, Matthew rubbed a fist in his eyes. "Um...I love you...more..."

At last the two adults were kicked out of the building and the two children were directed to their seats with everyone else. As Ms. Angie began to speak, Arthur and Francis fought furiously over a window decorated with happy cow stickers to peer into, their faces grotesquely pressed against the glass.

"And what might I ask you are doing?"

"I might ask you the same. Aren't you missing your desk porn right now? I know it's all you do, pardoning stamping out books. But I suppose you only need one hand for that..."

Hissing, Arthur kicked him. "You're the pervert! I'm here because I'm concerned about my boy-"

"-because he's special," Francis sneered.

Not quite getting the connection, Arthur nodded smugly. "Damn right. You're probably thinking of a little song you can sing to the little ones, the song about the one who got away. From the back of your van."

Suddenly he caught on to what Francis had been implying and nearly shit bricks. Oh. Fucking. Hell. He. Did. Not.

His fist slammed into Francis's face, sending the man staggering across the playground, and the two proceeded to fight. A little girl sitting at one of the tables glanced over and squeaked! "Hey! Those two guys are tryin' to kill each other!"

And so complete pandemonium ensued, chair legs squeaking as the children crowded around the nose-print covered window, watching what appeared to be a man with manbrows of justice attempting to strangle the other with a jump rope as the other hurled playground chalk in his face.

"My God!" Ms. Angie explained, attempting to shield the children's eyes from what came next. "MY GOD!"

Befuddled, Matthew waved. Francis merrily waved back before knocking Arthur to the ground, dumping chalk dust all over his hair.

~o*oOo*o~

Two months later, Ms. Angie sent a note home to parents stating that the class would perform in one month's time a little skit called The Magic Paintbrush. In it, a little boy brings color to his forest by waving around a paintbrush he stole from an old man. (She could have just have easily called it Harold and the Purple Crayon, but that would have involved some copyrights and the beating of little children.) She assigned a role to each of her students, asking parents to help with costumes.

Rather than choosing Alfred or Matthew for the role of the Magic Juvenile Delinquent, she opted to assign Alfred the role of 'Hoppy Hare' and Matthew 'Polar Bear Paul.' Hoping to encourage a very quiet little boy named Kiku to come out of his shell, she chose him. This was met with no small amount of anguish from guess who, Arthur finding her home phone number and calling to bitch. Every single time the poor woman tried to interrupt, the stream of complaints would be punctured by yet another interjection. She let him go on in this way before heading to fetch her laundry and getting a beer, sitting down at the table to find that Arthur had gone on unmolested without noticing her absence. When she saw her phone ring and glanced at the ID, she put the bottle back in the fridge and went to the liquor cabinet for something stronger.

"Why is there a pola' bear in the forest, Papa?" Matthew asked, befuddled as Francis scowled at the note in such a way you would have thought it said that his son had been witnessed committing acts of domestic terrorism. "Amimal poaching? And how is Paul supposed to become colorful when he's white?"

"Don't be racist, mon cher," Francis said affectionately before storming out of the house, where, predictably, he found Kirkland storming towards him. "I don't know what Magic Paint that woman has been sniffing-she won't return my phone calls-but no matter. My son will polar bear the shit out of you."

"What does that even mean? And what do people know of polar bears other than that they drink cola and are too stupid to survive global warming?" Arthur demanded, thrusting a finger in Francis's chest and nearly had it bitten off. "Everyone loves bunnies, in all forms-Easter, pets, cartoons, pornography-" Not that he'd want his son associated with the latter- "And he'll be fantastic! Not in a costume bought at Dollar General!"

"Like most of your mother's clothes? And I'll have you know Matthew comes alive first!"

"Because he's a boring polar bear and has no color!" He cried, exasperated. "Everyone knows the best comes last!"

Later that night the boys' fathers insisted on a rehearsal.

"Daddy, I don't actually get to say anything. I just get to hop."

"Yes, but what's your motivation?" Arthur asked impatiently from his seat. "You have to shine, my boy, really shine-yes, yes, that's good, you'll get a cookie-because the whole rotten audience will be thinking of the polar bear that was, by some cosmic error, put before you. And if you happen to accidentally step on Matthew's heels honey, Daddy will forgive you."

The day of the play arrived. In great excitement the two boys were dropped off at school, the parents due to arrive in an hour. As people began coming in and sitting in the chairs gathered around the cleared space for the performance, little children peeked from outside the halls in their costumes and giggled.

There was one small disaster beforehand; as the children were changing into their costumes, the Magic Artist peeked out at the waiting parents, promptly burst into tears and soiled his Magic pants. As Mrs. Honda did not have another pair on her (that's what I'll say), she took her son home, not before bowing to the teacher so many times she might have broken her spine. The Magic Paintbrush was then handed over to a student named Feliciano, a more relaxed classmate that was very adept at drawing.

The play didn't really have much plot; all that really happened was that the teacher narrated the beginning when the Magic Artist walked into the woods to discover that it was now as white as Congress. He thrust his brush in the air, chimed his charming, robotic little phrase: "With this paintbrush, I will bring color back into the world!" despite the fact that the audience could tell the little shit didn't have any goddamn paint at all with him, magic or otherwise.

What happened next was that he supposed to tap each of the white cardboard trees and bushes, and these were hastily flipped over by hiding kindergarteners to reveal poorly-colored in bushes, some of which were purple.

The animals on the 'stage' surrounding the bushes were all slumped over and told to pout, making them all look as if they belonged in a Cymbalta commercial. Then they would be given the slightest of taps from the Magic Paintbrush—there were a few incidents during rehearsal where 'color' was accidentally poked into children's eyes and they cried—and they would slowly get up, beam, and start following the Magic Artist around as they all frolicked to music together like happy little jobless heathens.

Ms. Angie had the foresight to have the children write their parents' nametags and place them on chairs which she arranged-with Mr. Kirkland and Mr. Bonnefoy far away with each other-but with the disappearance of Mrs. Honda, Mr. Bonnefoy replaced his chair so as to sit next to Mr. Kirkland, who mentally incinerated him. "I would have gotten an excellent view of my Matthieu kicking Alfred's lady parts from the back-" He produced a large camera with a smirk. "-but I only think it fair to get the look on your face, non?"

Arthur pulled out a larger camera from his bag. "Fuck you. My superior technology could have easily caught you crying from the back, where Ms. Angie probably placed you because you're a filthy Canadian fucker."

"French. And you're a racist bastard. That's the only reason Matthieu was not picked."

"What did you have for breakfast this morning, Carnation Instant Bitch?"

"Better than what you probably ate, which was probably scraped off the road with a spatula."

The play began, the children gathered, and Feliciano chirped his little phrase, which I'm going to assume was tooth-rottingly sweet and decayed all of your molars. As each child was tapped, they got up and began to danced.

"Alfred looks so adorable in his little costume," Arthur noted smugly, his whisper hot and intensely irritating in Mr. Bonnefoy's ear as Alfred spun around in his bunny suit. "Which was remarkably well-tailored, by the way, if I may say so myself."

The French man sniffed, eyes heavy with disdain. "Matthew looks infinitely better," he shot back in a whisper, jabbing his seat mate with his middle finger. "At least HIS costume isn't homemade." The last word was spat out with so much contempt and derision you would have thought it rolled in excrement.

The Englishman's eyes narrowed to angry slits in the dark, not noticing when Alfred cheerfully waved to the audience, eliciting several 'awws' and scattered applause. "At least I care enough to spend the time and effort stitching and customizing my adorable little boy's adorable little outfit instead of being a twice-year-parent!"

THAT did it; glaring at the stage, Francis leapt to his feet. "Matthieu!" He barked, making the polar bear child on stage jump and wither as suddenly all eyes were on him. "MATTHEW! MON CHER, YOU CALL THAT GAMBOLING IN GLEE?! FROLIC, FROLIC LIKE THE HAPPY POLAR BEAR YOU ARE!"

"Prance, Alfred!" Arthur exclaimed, immediately jumping up. Now everyone's eyes were on them, including those of the class. Startled, Alfred bumped into Matthew, who bumped into Feliciano, who dropped his magic paintbrush. "PRANCE! PRANCE, GODDAMNIT, PUSH THE BEAR OUT OF YOUR WAY IF YOU HAVE TO! HE SHOULDN'T GET TO GO IN FRONT OF HOPPY HARE ANYWAY! PAUL THE POLAR BEAR IS A REJECT!"

"Oh, oui?! WELL HOPPY HARE EATS TOO MANY COOKIES!" Francis bellowed in his face, despite Ms. Angie's desperate attempts to calm them both down. "THAT HARE WILL BE DIABETIC AND HAVE TO CUT OFF ITS OWN FOOT SOON! We'll see how much hopping he'll be doing then!"

"HE ONLY EATS SO MANY COOKIES BECAUSE POLAR PAUL'S MOTHER GIVES HOPPY A COOKIE THEY DO IT!"

WHAM.

"I hope you have money for your medical bills," Francis snarled. Wiping the blood off his chin and smoothing his suit jacket, Arthur just smirked at him in turn. God, was he happy he spent some time looking up insults on the internet.

"Actually, I don't. Hoppy must have left it on Polar Paul's Mother's bedside table."

It's not often a man starts beating another to death with his chair whilst the other tries to strangle him with his tie. It's less often you have to call two police officers to break up the fight whilst little children watched in stupefied amazement.

But there's a first time for everything.

Welp, that's preschool and the start of Ms. Angie's time in therapy. Here's my first breach in comedy...hope you enjoyed, Rose. If you guys want more, just say the word.