A Man Named Brian Joyce

Originally written August 19, 2005

Brian Joyce is my best friend.
One day, Brian Joyce will be responsible for my downfall.

My confession.

"Brian, come on, it's all clear." I yelled back to Brian. It was July of 1996. We were riding our bikes home from summer school back to my house to play Sega. We rode down Winnetka Avenue, home to the largest manors any of us have seen. I was a block ahead of Joyce and was trying to get him to hurry up. My mistake.

Horn sounds. Thud. Crack. Joyce is down. A beautiful, slick and silver Mercedes had pulled out of a private drive and ran him down. The bike's front tire struck the passenger's side front tire. The force of the impact threw him over his handlebars, a full flip on to the hood of this luxury cruiser. Thud.

Brian lay there. Motionless. I stood there with my bike at rest, speechless. I wondered, was he dead? Far from it. As hard you try, the song remains the same. From the ashes, a big bad rises. His name is Brian Joyce. He's the best at what he does and what he does definitely is not pretty. Biding his time, there's a day of reckoning in store for me. And the legend continues.