I considered my brother from across the diner table, nigh on forty years and still as cherubic as ever. My coffee, black and utilitarian, looked like tar compared to the creamy bastardization of brew he was happily stirring.
“Billy,” he said, being the only person in all of creation to still call me that, “you’re talkin crazy again.”
“I know you don’t fret, but truth is this old soul of mine is weary, and like to give out.”
“You’re not even fifty, and yer health is..”
“My body’s fine,” came my cross reply. I sighed and slid the revolver across the Formica to him, “It’s my soul what’s going to give out, and that’s when I want you to be ready.”
“You and yer fool ideas, Billy.”
“Look, I don’t expect you to get it now, and that’s fine. You got born with a new soul, so life ain’t as dark for ya. I get that. Just keep the pea shooter, and be ready. It’s the least you can do fer me. Besides, it’s about time yer soul had the chance to do some growin up.”
He just smiled and said, “Sure, Billy. Sure.”