The Momentary Thrill Seekers

"What should we call our club?"

The Thrill Seekers, Brenner argued. I personally thought it sounded perverted, and only branded us a group of kids that hid in the closet flipping through dad's secret stash of Playboy magazines, the ones he kept hidden under his mattress. True of course, but why advertise? Only yesterday I had chased my little brother John around the house with the centerfold dangling open, egged on by his horrified screams.

But Brenner was insistent, and being two years my junior at the ripe old age of eleven, he had a need to assert himself; and I felt, as a benevolent big brother, or step-brother as it were, that I should cede a victory once in a while. So Thrill Seekers it became.

We planned to build a tree house out back, where a perfect roost in a tall elm extended like a friendly hand. I could picture it perfectly, and sold my vision to the members of the nascent Thrill Seekers: we would build a base from which we would fight crime and protect the innocent. I showed them how we could build ladder rungs with scrap 2x4's, nailing them into the tree trunk, how we could hang a knotted rope from the branch as well. The corners of the treehouse foundation will go there, and windows will give us a perfect views of the river and down the street. It was so clear.

Then I realized I was assuming that I was in charge, and everyone else had too--except for Brenner, who looked gloomy indeed.

"I think," I said, "that we should decide right now who will be the president."

Brenner perked up. "Yes, that's a great idea."

There were only five of us. My little brother John, Brenner of course, and two neighbor kids Randy and Chris.

Randy said, "Well, I nominate Scott."

"Well I think it should be you Randy," Brenner said. He wore an expression that only I could read, because we knew each other oh so well. I'm gonna getcha.

God I hated him. His soul was a black, rotten, oily, dripping, gangrenous, festering wound. I wanted to smack his face, grab him by the hair and use him as a battering ram through the glass slider, tear his arms off and club him senseless with his dismembered limbs. He was my brother by my dad's third marriage to an ex-Vegas-wannabe-showgirl, now a disenfranchised bar fly, wandering aimless, waiting for a Prince Charming but settled for the frog. Brenner never had a father, but had borrowed mine for the last couple years. At times I felt sorry for him, but there was something deeply wrong with him, something dark. He was the kind of kid that tortured helpless animals, and liked to really hurt people, but he did so in a sneaky way, always leaving some doubt of his intention. Like the time I was looking through a telescope and he hit the other end with a pillow, driving it into my eye socket like a nail struck by a sledge.

We decided on a Secret Ballot. The candidates names were written in multiple choice fashion. When the votes were counted, I had come out ahead, but Brenner took everyone aside and whispered to them, all the while looking at me in sideways glances, smiling from the corner of his mouth that only I could see. A re-vote was called for, and Randy became the first president of the Thrill Seekers.

I was heartbroken.

"All right," I said to Randy, "what should we do first?"

Randy looked down at his feet. "I don't know, what do you want to do?"

"It's your call, not mine."

Randy shrugged his shoulders. "I'm going home."

The innocent would have fend for themselves.

The Thrill Seekers were no more.