My First Forays Into Murder

I hate my sister.I say that to a lot of people and they always give me the same shocked reaction. “What do you mean you hate your sister? Do you have any idea what a strong word that is, young man?” The short answer to their question is: Yes I do.

I envy people who can talk like this. They have no idea what it is like to be injured at their most fundamental and elemental levels.

I wish there was a stronger word that could describe exactly how offensive I find my sister’s existence. There is not one molecule in her body that is not loathsome to me. Have you ever despised someone so much that the very space they occupied became fouled because they occupied it? That’s how I feel about her. Every night I pray that she will be raped and murdered by a band of serial killing cannibals with sixteen inch penises covered in spikes, and every morning I become an atheist as though for the first time. Terrorists don’t hate America like I hate my sister.

If I spent the rest of my life doing nothing else I would not be able to compile a full list of her offenses against me. It started out when I was just an infant. The first year of my life, my sister tried to kill me, clawed off enough of my face while I slept in my crib that I still have scars to this day, and throughout my childhood pulled out enough of my hair to weave a hot air balloon. That’s why, when I first realized that it was possible for a person to simply “wink out of existence” and never come back, I very heartily attempted to induce this condition in my sister.

As always, I had only one role model to turn to: MacGyver.

I admire MacGyver for a number of reasons, ranging from his ingenuity to his belief in good and beautiful things. My sister is anathema to good things. I felt the great spirit of MacGyver which lives inside of us all, would not be too offended it I channeled a bit of his character into attempting to kill my sister, Rachel the Thunder Cunt.

I first tried to kill my sister right after she had called me a “Fatso,” and had beaten the crap out of me. I saw a piece of newspaper on the counter, a roll of electrical tape in my father’s tool box, and my sister riding her bike down the hill in front of her house. There is a reason I have decided to become an engineer: I have great mechanical intuition.

Holding back my sobs because I could not afford to let my tears turn the flimsy newspaper into pulp, I rolled the cartoon, and sports sections into five very long and narrow spears, which I then secured with the electrical tape. They weren’t very strong, but they didn’t have to be. I heard my sister laugh outside, as she rode down the hill in front of our house. I smiled grimly as hot tears poured down my face. It was time for justice.

In a manner that was as stealthy as it was ill-intentioned, I hid myself in a bush just at the base of the hill where my sister’s speed would be greatest. I took a few moments to imagine how to throw my spear and when my sister made her first pass at me, I realized that there was no reason for the other four spears.

My desire for revenge was so great that it was as though my rage had focused my senses to razor sharp acuity. As my sister rode down the hill on her bike, her evil whore face laughing as “butterflies” formed in her stomach, I loosed my improvised weapon. It went right in between the spokes of her front tire, got caught in the front fork of her bike just as I had hoped, and caused her front wheel to jam.

It worked. Her bike flipped. Her head rocketed into the ground. My heart stopped beating. It was up to that point, the most perfect experience of my entire life. Her fat face, for a moment, seemed to bend into the stone as her body drove her head downward. I was sure for a moment that her skull would simply crack open. She would die. I would never have to be hurt by her again. I wanted to cry tears of joy.

Unfortunately, she lived. My father rushed her to the emergency room, where I found, much to my disappointment, that she her skull wasn’t even cracked and that she was going to make a complete recovery. Next time I would have to be more devious if I was going to get the job done.

Having hid all of spears I had used to sabotage my sister’s bike ride I began the very slow process of planning my next assassination. My target: Rachel’s Ranch.

Rachel’s Ranch was the play fort that my father built for my sister that I wasn’t allowed in. It was like a school jungle gym in the middle of our yard that guaranteed me an ass-whooping if I ever went on it. With my Swiss Army knife saw in one pudgy hand, and the spirit of MacGyver in my heart I began the very tedious job of cutting the support struts in half.

For days I waited for the inevitable collapse. Every time I saw her climbing on that damned thing, I expected it to cave in on her and crush her fat stomach like a slug. It never happened… when she was on it by herself.

To finally see “Rachel’s Ranch” collapse like the Tower of Babylon before the wrath of an avenging God, I had to wait for the spectacular event known as “Rachel’s Eleventh Birthday Extravaganza.” If P-Diddy had birthday parties as lavish as my sister he would blush in shame.

I watched in mute horror as her bitchy but innocent friends crawled all over the compromised structure, knowing that any warning would reveal my guilt. It was all I could do to act surprised when the inevitable happened.

My sister, declaring that she was the “Queen of the Fort” began choosing the subjects who were worthy to stand next to her, one by one. With every added child the fort wobbled more and more.

That’s when the straw came that finally broke the camel’s back. A “larger than life” girl was called up to the top of the fort.

Some women are born with gentle, delicate frames… almost as if they were taken off the cover of a French fashion magazine. Other women are built like tanks. I don’t know what this girl was built like except to say that if she got into a game of Chicken with an asteroid I have no doubt which would turn first. In the end it took a young year girl with shoulders as wide as an axe handle and a single eyebrow just as thick to seal the deal.

As she made her way to the top, the wobbling, evident only to me until this point, became obvious to everyone else. The fort finally began to fall inward. The devastation was more frightening than it was injurious. I had not been able to find a way to cut the walls of the fort away so instead of collapsing in on itself, the walls provided enough support for the top structure to hold together. Rachel’s mighty tower toppled to the side, dropping her and all of her friends to the grass.

No broken bones, no bloody noses, just a few bruises, a lot of scared kids, and more than a few confused adults.

Later in the party I would give one of my greatest acting performances when I put on a guiltless expression in response to my Uncle Rick’s comment “it seems like some asshole came through here and cut these fucking beams.”