The Oh, Otis Shenanigans

Clark handed Otis the spyglass—a cardboard core from a roll of paper towels wrapped in aluminum foil—and asked, “What do you see?”

Otis took the “spyglass” from Clark, held it up to his right eye, and closed his left eye. “See there in the distance?” He pointed. “A ship. And not just any ship. A pirate ship.”

Clark and Fertis looked in the direction Otis pointed.

“There’s a boat coming toward us, filled with scoundrels,” Fertis warned.

“They’re only about thirty minutes away from the shore,” Clark surmised.

“Based on the ship’s flag, they’re the Black Bart Gang. They’re going to take all our ammunition, guns, and food,” Otis declared. “They may even kill us. We must defend ourselves!”

“Prepare the cannons and battle stations!” Fertis bellowed.

Fertis grabbed his BB gun and a slingshot and dove behind a bale of hay. Clark seized his BB gun, an empty soda bottle, and a large plastic bag filled with bottle rockets and jumped next to Fertis. Otis held his BB gun in his left hand and a cherry bomb in his right. He crouched behind a large rock near his comrades.

“Men, we’re going to have to get them before they get us,” Otis ordered. “If they get out of their boat, we’re goners!”

Clark placed a bottle rocket in the empty soda bottle, aimed it toward the rock pit about twenty yards away, flicked his lighter, and lit the fuse. The rocket flew into the air, and a small “pop” emitted as it blew itself into tiny shreds of paper. He set off several as Otis and Fertis shot their BB guns toward the scoundrels, a.k.a. the rock pit.

Pew, pew-pew, pew…

“Our light weaponry isn’t enough! They’re only minutes away from landing!” Clark yelled.

“Prepare to launch the cannon!” Fertis screamed.

Otis whipped out his trusty lighter, expertly flicked the lid open, and ran his thumb over the flint wheel, creating a flame. “Commence to bombing?”

“AFFIRMATIVE!” both Fertis and Clark shouted.

Otis lit the fuse on the cherry bomb and cried, “BOMBS AWAY!” The incendiary sailed through the air toward the rock pit and landed in a pile of gravel. Within seconds, a tremendous BOOM filled the air and sent rock shrapnel in all directions.

Episode 13 - Warrior Brothers Forever By Temple Kinyon

“This calls for a celebration!” Fertis announced.

Otis scrambled to the fort situated behind them—a square of castoff lumber from Grandpa Ed that stood about three feet high. There was an opening for a “door,” and Otis grabbed the snacks Mavis had sent that morning—a bag of jerky, three bottles of soda, and a bag of potato chips. He presented them to Fertis and Clark.

“And now, we feast to our victory, Warrior Brothers!” he proclaimed.

The three chowed down on the jerky and chips and took large swallows of soda, which resulted in long, loud belches only young boys can produce, peppered with fits of giggles after each. Burps were always funny.

Fertis and Clark were staying the night with Otis, but this type of battle scene had played out several times at Otis’s fort located at the edge of Marvel and Mavis’s pasture 300 yards away from the house. The family rock pit sat near the makeshift garrison, although this time the boys were not pretending to be in the military. They’d decided at school the week prior during a planning session to be Warrior Brothers of some ancient clan located on a remote island in the warm and dangerous waters of the Caribbean. They’d also decided to dress the part.

Otis had swiped some hair bands, styling gel, and a tube of bright red lipstick from his sisters’ bathroom, Clark had dried out a pile of chicken bones from his family’s Sunday supper, and Fertis had snagged some brightly colored bead necklaces from his grandma’s house.

When they arrived at the fort that Saturday morning, they immediately stripped off their shirts to metamorphose into the Warrior Brothers. Using the lipstick, they painted odd shapes and markings all over their chests, arms, and faces. Otis pulled his mop of curly hair into a waterspout ponytail on top of his head and stuck a large chicken leg bone in the hairband. Fertis slicked back his hair on both sides, creating a mohawk of sorts, and used hair bands to hold several chicken bones in place around his wrists. Clark had always sported a perfect mullet, so he took his long, “party in the back” mane and made three braids with bones hanging from the ends secured with hair bands. They wrapped the vibrant beads several times around their necks to complete the ensemble. They were a clan, a fraternity, fighting pirates and the unknown elements of their island world. They’d been at it all day and determined they would dress up as Warrior Brothers again on Halloween, which was three weeks away.

“Boys, it’s almost time for dinner!” wafted Mavis’s voice from the house. Otis stood and saw his mom waving her arm from the back porch.

“OK, MOM!” he yelled back.

“Time to head back, guys,” Otis said as he picked up the remnants of the day. He put his shirt on and slung his BB gun over his shoulder as Fertis and Clark did the same. They quickly ran their fingers through their hair, dislodging bands, braids, and chicken bones, and removed their beads.

As they sauntered toward the Swan house, Otis asked cautiously, “So, did you guys get it?”

“Yep,” Fertis smiled like a Cheshire cat.

“Me, too,” Clark smirked.

“So did I,” Otis beamed.

Their Warrior Brother celebrations would continue later.

“Oh, Otis!” Mavis shrieked when the boys trudged in the back door. “What do you have all over your face?! And arms?! Is that LIPSTICK?!”

“Oh, that,” Otis nonchalantly waved her off. “It’s our tribal war paint. I borrowed it from Gladys and Doris. We’ll go wash up.”

“I highly doubt you asked your sisters for their lipstick, as I’m sure they would’ve said no,” Mavis barked. “And you can wash up all you want, but you won’t get it off. Lipstick stains!”

The boys looked at one another, silent. They hadn’t thought their plan through that far. Their faces, chests, and arms were covered in all sorts of squiggles, lines, and shapes. They’d gone to great lengths to fully “tag” any uncovered skin.

Mavis stifled a giggle. No sense in scolding them; they’d wear their punishment in front of everyone at the dinner table. “Let me get you some old washcloths and towels to scrub up,” she said. “Do not use the towels in the bathroom.”

The boys noted Mavis’s stern warning, grabbed the towels she found in a cupboard in the laundry room, and raced up the stairs to the second-floor bathroom Otis shared with his brothers. Soap removed some of the brightness, but the crimson marks remained, now inflamed with washcloth burns from rubbing and scrubbing so hard. Their worry about stained skin dissipated quickly, however, as they ended up in a small water fight, which abruptly halted only when Mavis yelled that dinner was ready.

Other than Otis’s oldest sibling, Otho, who was stationed at Grissom Air Force Base in Indiana, the entire family sat around the large dining room table—Mavis, Marvel, Otis’s five siblings, Grandma Helen, and Grandpa Ed. When the non-Warrior Brothers took a look at the three boys still sporting their lipstick ornamentation, a burst of laughter erupted, and the teasing commenced.

Marvel finally told everyone to calm down and said to Otis, “Son, you and your friends need to make better choices.”

It was after 10 p.m. when Otis, Fertis, and Clark settled into bed in Otis’s room. Otis’s brothers, Cletis and Deanie, were normally his roommates but fled to Chuck’s room for peace away from the noisy boys.

“Ok guys, we gotta wait until the house is asleep,” Otis whispered. “But lookie…” He reached under his bed and revealed a lone can of Heidelberg beer. He shifted his eyebrows up and down, causing Fertis and Clark to bury their faces in their pillows to cover their impish laughs. The digital clock on Otis’s nightstand slowly inched toward 11:00 p.m., then midnight. The house offered an occasional pop and creak, but no other sounds were detected.

“Everyone’s asleep,” Otis whispered. “Let’s roll.”

Otis put on a baggy hoodie sweatshirt and put his can of beer in the big front pocket. Fertis pulled a can of Schlitz out of his overnight bag, and Clark produced a white can with BEER emblazoned on the side in black letters.

“Generic?!” Fertis hissed. “That stuff’s nasty!”

“How do you know?” Clark hissed back.

“I took a sip of my dad’s one time,” he whispered. “It almost killed me!”

“All beer tastes nasty,” Clark murmured. “People don’t drink it because they like how it tastes.”

Otis crammed the three cans into his massive sweatshirt pocket and stealthily opened his window. He’d done this dozens of times; his brothers taught him how to sneak out a few years ago. Otis had never actually gone anywhere when he snuck out; he just sat on the roof and looked at the stars. But not tonight.

They climbed out the window silently. Fertis and Clark scootched down to the edge of the roof, rolled over on their bellies, and stealthily inched themselves down until their feet touched the massive propane tank sitting on the ground below. They stood on the tank and then jumped off. Otis then scootched down to the roof’s edge, but when he rolled over onto his stomach, he forgot about the beers. One slipped out. Before he could grab it, the can rolled off the edge of the roof and landed with an earthshattering BOOOOOONNNNGGGGGG as it smacked the propane tank and then landed in the grass. Fertis and Clark ran into the barn, leaving Otis hanging half on, half off the roof. He knew the sound had awakened his parents, probably his grandparents at their house, and everyone in town it was so loud. He threw caution to the wind and let go, hoping his feet would hit the propane tank. Luckily, he stuck the landing and managed to keep the other two other beers nestled in his sweatshirt pocket. He immediately jumped to the ground, picked up the rogue beer can, and dashed to the barn.

“Guys?” he whispered as he walked into the darkness.

“Over here,” Fertis whispered from the back of the barn by the stalls. Click. Clark’s pocket flashlight lit up, and he rested it on its end. A ten-foot circle of light engulfed the trio but left the rest of the barn dark.

Otis pulled out the BEER, and the three giggled in excitement as he grabbed the tab and pulled. Their overzealousness at opening the libation worked against them, however, and it sprayed foam in their faces.

“Awww, man!” Fertis exclaimed. “You shook it up, Otis!”

“I didn’t not!” Otis shot back. “It was the one that fell out of my pocket.”

Otis took a long pull off the beer, then swallowed. The golden fizz burned as it made its way down to his belly full of spaghetti. The taste was wretched, but he felt compelled not to complain. He’d never heard any man complain about the taste of beer. He handed the can to Fertis.

“That’s some nasty brew,” Fertis said after he swallowed.

Clark took a swig, swallowed, and immediately burped, then started laughing. “Let’s hope the other stuff tastes better.”

The three imbibed over the next thirty minutes, quickly downing all the beers with very little complaining. Then the giggling and teasing began.

“You look ridiculiculousss, Otisss,” Fertis slurred. “You haff those libstick marks alllover your face.”

“You do too, bucko,” Otis replied. “And Clark! Clark issss the biggest dork cuz he even put it on hissss FORE head.”

The fits and tee-hees echoed throughout the barn.

“Heeeyyy,” Otis piped up. “I got something elssse we can try. My grammpuh’s sssecrettt ssssauccceee.” He jumped up, raced over to a bank of cupboards above the workbench, and started rummaging around.

“You’re the ssssaauuccced one, Otis,” Fertis sniggered, which resulted in even more hysterics.

“Here tis!” Otis was standing on the work bench on his tiptoes, reaching far back into one of the top shelves. He pulled out a glass canning jar half full of clear liquid. He jumped down to the floor and waltzed over to his friends. “Taaaa daaaa!” They each took a mouthful of the liquid of unknow origin and coughed and sputtered it down.

“Wow, that ssstufff carriesss quite a P-unch,” Clark said, emphasizing the “p” in punch.

“You do not hafff to sssspit in my faccce, dear fellow Warrrriorrorrior Bro,” Otis said with his face inches away from Clark’s. Clark put his arm around Otis, laughing, and said, “You jusss-

They started howling, and Fertis jumped in. “I wanna be a ssssspittt brother!”

Clark and Otis obliged with huge, spit-producing raspberries, drenching Fertis’s face.

“Thasss reallllly grossss,” Fertis said as he wiped his face. “Bu from now on and alwaysss and foreverrrrr, Imma call us Warrrioorrorr Bro Spitheads.”

The joke sent them falling in a heap, laughing to the point of crying and side aches. When they caught their breath, they passed around the jar one more time, agreeing that sip didn’t sting as much going down as the first one.

“Man, thissss issss the besss day EVER,” Otis shouted. “I love you guyssss.”

“We love you tooooo, Otissss,” Fertis and Clark exclaimed.

“Warrriooorrrorrrr Brotherssss forever!” Otis declared.

Suddenly, a low mmmmmmerrrrrrr sliced through the darkness outside the lit circle. The boys froze.

Mmmmmmmmmerrrrr.

“Oh, hell, thassss jusss Besssssie, the milk cow,” Otis said matter-of-factly.

Without saying a word, the three cohorts jumped up, scooted over to Bessie’s stall, and started lovingly petting and hugging her.

“Bessssie, you’re the besssie cow EVER,” Otis said. “I love you ssssooooo much. An I love your milk, toooo.”

Mmmmmmmmmeeerrrrrrr. Bessie grouched and shifted her weight as if to say she was already annoyed at the late-night visitors. Clark had brought the flashlight and shined it in her face.

“Your eyessss are ssssoooo biiiig and brooownnn,” Clark noted as he leaned close to kiss her.

Bessie responded with another mmmmmmerrrrrr, and then quickly flicked her pink ham-like tongue into her left nostril, then her right, cleaning off the ever-present drizzle of clear snot she wore.

“Thasss ssssoooo coooool she can do that nose thingy,” Fertis marveled. “I cannnnot put my tongue in my nossstril.” And he proceeded to show his band of merry Warrior Brothers he was right. Otis and Clark had to give it a try too, and soon the three were having a competition on who had the longest tongue. nbeknownst to the three fully spirited boys, Marvel stood spying through the cracked-open barn door. When the beer can hit the propane tank, Marvel had indeed woken up. When he went to inspect the situation, he’d watched from the unlit back porch-window as Otis dropped off the roof and scampered to the barn. He’d waited a beat, then quietly made his way to the barn door, witnessing the beer and “sauce” drinking. He immediately decided they were liquored-up enough—whether it was real or just the heady excitement of getting away with something—and walked into the barn.

He clicked on the overhead light and said, “Just what the Sam Hill is going on here?”

Startled, the boys jumped and whirled around. “Uhmm, errr, wellll,” they all stammered.

“Ok, fellas, here’s the deal,” Marvel said. “I know what you’ve been up to, and I’m wondering how to deal with you.” He walked over to the boys and inspected them by bending down to eye level, giving each a long, stern look. “Why don’t you sleep out here tonight with Bessie, and I’ll come and get you up in the morning?” He wasn’t really asking.

The boys “agreed” to sleep in the loft above Bessie, made their way up the ladder, and settled into their bed of straw. Marvel threw three horse blankets up to them and told them to go to sleep. He shook his head as he turned off the light, closed the barn door, and heard unmistakable rounds of giggles. Unable to contain his laughter, he chuckled all the way back to the house. The boys, with their marked-up faces, messed-up hair, and tipsy giggles, took him back to a time of exploration of elixirs during his childhood with his Warrior Brothers, who were his three best friends to this day. Warrior Brothers forever.

At six o’clock straight up the next morning, Marvel burst into the barn, clicked on the light, and hollered, “Rise and shine, Warrior Brothers!”

Otis, Fertis, and Clark sat up, bleary-eyed, looking dazed and confused, hay in their hair, faces still tagged with red tribal markings.

“I brought you breakfast,” Marvel smiled. “C’mon down and eat while it’s hot.”

The three boys grudgingly came down the ladder from the hay loft, blinking from the bright overhead lights. Marvel put a large tray of food on the workbench, but one look at the slimy sunny side-up eggs and greasy pork sausage sent the Warrior Brothers scrambling out the back barn door to throw up in the grass.

Marvel laughed and decided that a good stall cleaning for Bessie and the rest of the animals, the warpaint on their bodies that would still be visible the next day at school, and the potential repeated retching was punishment enough. He wouldn’t dole out further penalties. Warrior Brothers of all generations had to stick together.