the green bucket on the back of the truck

My brother has told me for years to do whatever the hell he tells me to do. He says it will save me a lot of trouble, because he'll tear my ears off if I don't, and that will make for a terrible childhood. Sometimes I don't want to do it, but he's usually right. He's never torn my ears off, but he gave me two snake-bites, put four lumps of shit in my basketball shoes, and nailed me with about a hundred and seven charlie-horses.

All of that stuff was pretty awful, so I usually follow instructions.

Here I am on the back of the pickup, though, and Matt's yelling from the cab.

"GodDAMMIT, Stephen. God. . .DAMMIT!"

I hear him fumble around in there, and I'm pretty sure he's getting that huge bolt out of the glove compartment so that he can stick his head out the back window and throw it at me. He'll aim for my ass. I know that this is happening, but I can just barely think about it. What I'm doing is I'm looking at this five-gallon bucket, and I'm not kicking it off the back of the truck. I'm not. There are some things that one will not do.

Here comes the bolt.