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So somewhere within the last twenty minutes thanks to a couple of cases of really good beer, enough pressure to make a titanium gasket crack, and the sudden reveal that Brian’s got a big damn secret, a fiesta started. Well, you know it’s not a fiesta-fiesta, because there’s only two chicks around here, no real good grub, and no damn red cups that have made every party from Rio to the Great Wall of China since forever; but it’s still a party by the most basic of standards.
And usually you would be enjoying it. Would be standing at the epicenter of a human tornado of sweaty skin, too tight clothes, and bass bumping hard enough to rattle your pearly whites and enjoy every damn second of it.
That’s, well, usually how it would work.
But right now, you find yourself with a beer and posted up in a sweet spot that allows you the ease of scoping out all the busybodies that are going to start circling like sharks at the smell of guppy chum and your boy—both of them actually—but, mainly, Brian, who appears stuck between the absolute poles of Big D scowling and Brother John smiling.
It’s funny how you’ve always told Brian that females are his problem; truth is: they’re not and trouble always finds Brian like a bitter-ex with a fire fetish. Something you know about all too well. Suki’s girls are crazy, just saying. But Dom’s not the fire type, at least, you don’t think that right now. You’ve only skirted the edges of tangling with Green Mile’s light-skinned cousin, something that you’ve got to do to resolve multiple questions that you know Brian sure as hell won’t be answering.
It rubs you right down to the quick that Brian let this dude blow through his life, just rip shit apart like a hurricane, and Brian? Brian just walks away from everything he’s worked tooth and nail for. All the stuff he just about sacrificed everything to have and does so wearing one of those too pretty grins while broadcasting to the universe that his little corner of the world is just fine. Absolutely chill like beachside beer and just stands in the middle of the chaos still smiling, knowing full well that the rinse and repeat is coming the moment he hooks up with Toretto again.
You think the problem would’ve been simpler if the thing involved Brian and Mia. Not that you’re wishing to complicate things even more between them, because you still can’t read that situation completely. Whatever it is will end up being nothing a good ass-whooping, some flowers, and making a lovesick fool of himself can’t fix. But when you’re talking nationwide manhunts, crossing international borders, and willingly taking on fugitive status, then the story gets complicated. Takes a turn for high drama then gets dragged out a couple of years to become a saga. Like Star Wars, maybe, or some other evolving tale. But truth is that not even light sabers could save the epic hot mess brewing between Brian and Dom.
Now John’s here and your head is swimming with memories of the worst games of hide and seek of your life, sleeping three deep in a corner-pushed twin bed until your legs and shoulders got too long and wide to make any game of human tetris work; and standing between two people you know so well but never could fully understand.
You think and not for the first time that only Brian could end up in a situation like this.
So you’re back to drinking and observing all of this with equal parts fascination and anticipated horror. You never know with John, and settle in to wait for your cue to get the hose. Why? Because it always ends in a fight and those two can’t get to smooth without friction, fists, and fumbling around like drunk circus acrobats.
Watching Brian make a decision of who he’s going to get to first is more interesting than watching National Geographic. It’s, like, a really deep experience, and you can see him making those seriously logical decisions that made him go the route of being a cop. Carefully weighing the risks and benefits of each option in one darting glance.
Again, you’ll put your money on Bri choosing to explain things to Dom first. You and Brian have always been close, like twice dried spandex pants on a big ass, close. Much closer than you and John in all respects, except one, and just thinking about that one makes your take a hard pull on your probably internationally ranked beer and barely manage to not choke.
But you end up wrong here and then you watch as Brian gives Dom a loaded look—which, again, you’re not going there. Not at all. Not even a little bit. Even though it’s getting on your nerves. Just a bit. Maybe a lot. Since by all accounts your best bro and Toretto seem to go together like red Kool-Aid and the middle of summer.
Whatever, you’re learning to let things go and be the bigger man. Oprah taught you that and she’s never wrong, so you won’t dwell on it. Not right now at least, because your focus needs to be on the impending collision between Brian and John. Of course Tej decides to roll up on you then, which considering all the other possible curbside detectives, you’re actually okay with.
Truthfully, your options are limited: Dominican Bert and Ernie don’t speak much English and you’re not up for working your translation game, you don’t know Han that well but he seems cool; GI Jane may be hot as hell but she’s got a stare that makes you consciously keep someone between the two you at all times. Of course you’re not afraid of her but just favor keeping all exits in sight when she gives you that look. Just seems smart. There’s Dom’s old road dog who’s looking at everyone like they may be on the verge of stealing his mama’s fine china and ain’t nobody got time for that. Leaving Mia, Dom, Brian, and John. Which is just another no.
Settling down for the show isn’t a problem. If you’d been thinking ahead, you would’ve brought another beer with you. You’ll step it up next time. But lucky you, Tej has extra on him and is already handing one to you when he grabs a stool to bunker down beside you.
“So,” Tej starts, drawing the word out like he’s still trying to catch his breath, “What is that? Seriously, man, what is that all about?” He points with the tip of his chin at Brian and John gearing up for their first faceoff.
You shrug, still not too sure yourself. “What you want me to say? That it’s Black Magic? Nah, man, Brian has a brother and--” What else is there other than that? You’ve known those two since the time you all had soft spots and onesie pajamas but you still don’t have all the rules for the weird-ass twin game that they’re playing and assume you never will. “I haven’t peeped John in years, so count me as surprised as you.”
Tej sits back against the worktable and just mimics what you’re doing and watches.
You sorta miss the days when Tej had a Soul Train big ‘fro and mutton-chop sideburns like he was an extra in a 70s Blaxploitation kung-fu film. You also miss being in Miami and living it up at Verone’s expense while knowing that John was half a continent away.
“It just is.” You say, because that’s the way things have always gone with Brian and John. “Brian and John have always done things their way.” Meaning rules about when and how they see each other, who can know about them, and apparently who got Rome in the split.
Tej won’t let this thing rest and if you weren’t in the know already you’d be just as eager to whip out the popcorn and start watching this real life soap opera, too. But this is your family at stake, so you take up a position that you don’t do often enough and wait to play referee. Tej, like anyone else, doesn’t know how you all grew up bouncing across the rundown parts of Barstow and the desert beyond, always with not enough and a revolving door of play-play relatives to look after you as their mamas were trying to work to get food on the table and second-hand and third-hand everything on your backs. They just don’t know and you don’t feel responsible for explaining it to them.
But you’re still stuck with Tej who’s the guy that’s used to looking at all the angles, figuring out the probabilities of different outcomes so that he can make the best bets, and coming up with crazy plans and gadgets that make you pretty sure he was called Hood Urkel more than a few times growing up.
Tej took a drink and shook his head. “Nah, dude, nope. Not getting off that easy. Seriously, how many times did we just chill out behind the shop or on the boat just shootin’ the shit and neither one of you knuckleheads decided to say—‘yo, interesting fact: my boy here has a twin’. I mean, this thing …that just happened here is what? Like some Maury shit. And that’s not cool.”
Again, you drink and shrug, just relax down on the stool now that Brian and John actually seem to be talking and you’re going to do your best to listen. “More like Jerry Springer.” You add. Because the marks from growing up in a trailer can’t be shaken, especially when they whittle down to tiny white and brown lines that speak louder than your big mouth ever could.
You catch the way Tej’s brows stagger upwards and seem to get stuck in the middle of his forehead like a West Palm Beach cougar’s. That’s enough for him to chew on for a second or two. Back to the action, you see Dom hovering at the edge of twins’ reunion, trying to watch them and hear the Wimbledon worthy conversation.
Brian’s got his serious face on whereas John’s wearing a look that can best be described as cheerful.
You catch him saying, “I hadn’t been planning on staying in L.A. much longer away, but,” John paused, now angling towards looking slightly annoyed, “would’ve been nice to have a head’s up that this--” he gestures at his face,” would be plastered on every screen and newsstand, like, everywhere.”
Exhaling deeply, Brian looks guilty when he says, “Sorry ‘bout that. I couldn’t call.”
“No,” John snaps backs, quick like a rubber band, “you just didn’t call.” John flashes a Brian a look that clearly snarks bullshit. “Instead you pull a prison break and pop some feds, too. Didn’t think you had it in you.” John prods and sounds vaguely impressed. “Even with your missteps—” code for Brian’s first exile from L.A. “you’ve never gone this hard before.”
Not like John, you think. Brian and John maybe identical in looks; like if they went back to donning those basic-ass threads like the ones that Brian still wears, then even you would have a hard time telling them apart until they start talking.
“No.” Brian takes the hardline and squares his shoulders as he gets deeper in John’s space to make his point. A move that you’ve missed; only John’s capable of flipping Brian’s switch from being stuck in defensive mode to barely holding back from jumping his chain on the offensive. “I’ll cop to the prison truck but we didn’t kill those agents. That was something else.”
John’s smirk evolves into a giant grin. The kind of grin that you’ve seen hungry hyenas wear before pouncing on the slow antelope. You don’t want Brian to be the slow antelope.
“We?” He looks around the angle of Brian’s shoulder to light his eyes on Mia for a second, then slides his gaze to Dom for far longer and makes a show of stroking his bottom lip with his tongue. “I knew you hadn’t changed that much, B. But it looks like you’ve got a couple of reasons to not act right.” He grins larger, making his blue eyes sparkle. “Though I can’t tell which reason is driving you harder.”
“John, cut it out.” Brian warns. He’s ready to get back to serious talk and dives closer to John’s face that reflects opposite of the cold fury riding too close to the surface on his. “How did you find me? And I mean that seriously.”
You’ve met other twins before, even had a very good night with a pair of cheerleaders outside of Atlanta, but you’ve only spent serious time around Brian and John. Of course, you’ve heard things, like the type of stuff that ends up on the late night beta-schedule of one of those knock-off Discovery Channels. You remember that time when you were ten and John broke his arm falling off the roof of the trailer or during the second go-round of juvie when Brian got jumped and John peeled out of the library like he had lightning in his veins. Each time, they found each other like they had GPS directions; so you have no doubt that this is only a repeat performance on a bigger scale.
John sets himself up in a comfortable position, with the type of lazy grace of someone who’d never been forced to run across continents or wield a piece without thinking it’s me or them. Just a picture of cool. You guess money was the one thing that John always needed, and from the looks of him—Ralph Lauren preppy without being too whitebread—you realize that money agrees with him.
“The way we always find each other: just follow the trail of trouble.” He says with a weird glint in his eyes. “ It’s the reason we have rule number 4.”
“I didn’t forget.” Brian admits. “Just got wrapped up in this. Of getting Dom out and --”
“In figuring out that you weren’t meant to play by the rules. That you can still be the good guy while doing the wrong thing. Congrats on getting over your existential crisis, bro.”
Brian rolled his eyes and scrubbed a hand over his hair, his go-to tell of frustration. “Don’t be an asshole, J. It’s not like you’ve had to make hard choices that could send your life through a shredder. I’m sure deciding whether this tie goes with this sweater vest isn’t that hard.”
It gets quiet then for a second. The lull between songs riding over the tension suffocating the air in the room. Now you really wish you had that hose. Your eyes ping-pong around the room from Dom to Vince to Giselle; you’re all waiting for something to pop-off. For you, it’s the anticipation of John fighting dirty with a head-butt and Brian lashing out and locking John down with his legs. If it gets worse then Brian’s gun will make a reappearance and John’s, probably but most definitely, bigger gun will, too. It’ll be like High Noon over Rio; somewhere out there, you’re sure that Uncle Jack would be proud.
John puts Brian under the intensity of those crystal blues and you’re almost disappointed that there aren’t any sparks. “You may’ve decided to just move to the other side but I’ve always lived here, B.” The angry bass in his voice flattens John’s tone until it’s as flinty as his eyes. “So we can talk about hard choices all you want. I just bet, brother,” John drawls, deliberately then licks his lips and jutting his jaw, “that mine come with a higher body count.” You don’t want any details—absolutely none—about the things John’s had to do.
The music starts again, not before you and Dom each snag a twin and try to diffuse the situation.
Dom yells. “Brian.”
You shout, “John,” and you’re already off the stool and five steps deep before you realize it.
Like ice water on a fire, it’s enough to put the Rumble in The Jungle, part two on pause.
You feel like you’ve gotten a case of whiplash. An hour ago, you’re standing around trying to figure out how to pull off some Mission Impossible shit and walk away with a hundred mil without ending up in handcuffs or a few extra holes in your ass; now you’re playing referee in dysfunctional family court.
Thanks, John, really.
You need a moment. A breath. No make that several, because somehow in things went from Mission Impossible to Mission-Let’s-Get-Our-Freak-On to Mission Whoop Ass Like You Stole Something.
Over the years, you’ve managed to piece together the rules without confirming their exact order or why they’re there in the first place but it sorta makes sense with the way you all grew up off the beaten path.
You can tell that Toretto’s itching to jump in and get between Brian and John or anyone really who would come at Brian sideways. Even if the person doing the stepping up is Brian’s twin. John doesn’t look phased in the least at the prospect of tangling with Toretto. Just stands there looking moderately more relaxed like he’s waiting for a tall glass of lemonade or a ride on the teacups at Disneyland.
“It’s cool, Dom, Rome.” Brian doesn’t take his eyes off John. “We’re done,” he promises and John agrees with a slight tip of his head and soft smile.
John adds. “For now.” Again jumping in to have the last word.
“Trust me, you won’t hafta to worry ‘bout me forgetting the rules again. I promise you that.” Brian replies so frostily, you expect ice chips to ride on his breath.
When it feels like you’re no longer on the brink of World War III, you take those long five steps back to the workbench and begin the slow process of unwinding your knotted up muscles and waiting for the adrenaline to settle in your system.
You instinctively shuffle what’s left of your beer to your lap and go for your fingers, because it’s counting time. You tick off the rules as you know them:
- Never tell anyone about the other without permission.
- Always keep a couple of hundred miles between setups.
- Call when shit goes down.
- Never make your brother chase you.
- Don’t get caught and don’t make big trouble.
As far as you can tell, Brian’s fucked this thing up a couple times over. The only bit of comfort you get from that knowledge is knowing just who he’s been running with each time, whereas with John, you can never tell. John looks clean and like a boss civilian who belongs in Orange County but John’s always been rougher, not tougher, and infinitely more direct than Brian, and if you’re silly enough to think this pack guppies hanging around Brian are sharks, then you can only imagine the types of whales that John used to swim with.
“So they’ve got rules, too. They running some type of game or something.” Tej asks and you don’t have to fake being irritated by the question.
So there’s too much bark in your voice when you answer. “So? Not’s like I haven’t heard Dom’s got a code and you’ve got a rolodex of geekry to get your wheels turnin’. Personally, I just don’t want to hungry no more, but that’s just me, so. Whatever gets you through life, I’ve learned not to judge, man.”
Tej’s question isn’t far off though.
It’s not a con. It’s never been about conning anyone, even if it kinda is. Started when they were kids and John and Brian dressed alike and they moved so much that people forgot that there were two O’Conner boys instead of one. After trip three in juvie, they made it a permanent thing. From then on, there would always be Brian O’Conner and John Rahway and never should the two meet. Only Brian and John can make blurred lines go straight with just a change of location, and moral standing, and names: O’Conner, the name they’d been given at birth and Rahway, the name their mama carried.
To this day, you’re not quite sure where Mama Rahway came from or why she never busted their balls the same way your thrice saintly mama did with you when she was completely over the stupid shit you all got into. You’re pretty sure Mama Rahway encouraged this—these bad habits turned character traits that have led you each to this warehouse in Brazil.
Brian’s a liar. Can lie to your face without blinking.
John is a thief. Steals only what he says can be afforded. You still wonder how he determined what you could afford when it was just the two of you in pool of some vacate summer home when you were seventeen and you made it together for the first time, sweeter than when dreams comes true.
You’re not going there. Not again.
John starts down a neutral path. “Uncle Jack says hi.”
Like you, Uncle Jack had disowned Brian when he decided to become a cop. Would’ve probably died if he heard Brian had gone Fed.
“How’s he like the place?” His senior village is possibly the only place outside of Barstow where Brian and John can tread as they please without anyone asking questions. Never there together but always there checking on the old man. “Didn’t have much to say to me the last time I visited but he looked good.”
Uncle Jack is Mama Rahway’s brother who rolled harder than anyone you’ve ever met. You’ll admit that the three of you lacked as one of the juvie judges said, “Positive male role models,” but you had Uncle Jack who was a former marine turned Hell’s Angel turned con. The man may still be left of right-thinking but he’s the one that taught you all how to drive, how to put together an engine, and the right way to steal a car. And when they separated, he’s the one that John went to live with in Riverside.
John slaps on one of those star bright smiles that oozes triumph. “That’s because I’m his favorite.” He says, grinning wider and absolutely loving how he can poke at Brian.
Brian kicks John’s foot playfully, then tries to shrug it off but just the faintest bit hurt, “ Cool with me, bro. At least, I’m not walking around lookin’ like a Ken doll.”
John knocks Brian’s shoulder back playfully. “At least, I’m not packing like a Ken doll.”
Oh, burn. You and Tej are snickering, Vince is howling like a wild coyote, and Dom’s trying not to laugh, especially with Brian giving him a look of mock betrayal. But the point stands, John still knows how to strike with words.
“Boy band reject,” Brian bites back.
“Street rat.”
“Prince Not So-Charming.”
By now everyone’s paying attention to these two and John’s hesitation is making it certain that Brian will win this round, but that maniacal Tinkerbelle sparkle comes back to his eyes and Brian’s rearing back like he’s gearing up to ride a huge wave or take a hit and then John drops the bomb.
“Stinky.” You almost wish John had a mic just so he could drop it and walk off the stage. Because he just went oldie but goldie and totally annihilated Brian like whoa.
Now you’re not crying-crying but there’s something definitely in your eye and you are barely staying upright as you’re clutching your gut. You do feel bad for Brian but damn. “John…seriously, you went to that throwback. Like damn.” You doubled over laughing, almost choking while trying to apologize. “Sorry, Bri, but he got you. He got you good.”
“What’s that mean?” Tej asks for himself and just about everybody.
John answers regardless of how Brian seems to be itching to get his piece back in hand and pointed at John until he shuts up. John rolls his eyes and starts talking anyway. “That’s the short version. It used to be Stinky Gremlin right, Rome?”
You’re expected to be on Team Brian and Brian’s giving you those blue puppy eyes of doom and gloom while John’s egging you on with that smirk and—and you’ll have to get right with Brian later, you realize.
“Yeah, we used to say don’t feed him after midnight or else you’d be living in funky--”
“Rome,” Brian groans, exasperated.
“—town,” John finishes, giving absolutely no damns.
So there’s laughter at Brian’s expense for a couple of minutes until he puts John in a headlock and makes him cry uncle. Then they’re back to the Mission Fiesta and you can tell that the tension is going downhill from there. Brian ends up taking a short stroll to get more beer and on the way makes a point of angling towards Dom to give him a look that promises further discussion and explanation. Funny, you recognize the look because John casts the same one your way. You may or may not have nodded back.
When Brian gets back with more beer, he gives John one without playing a couple rounds of sike-out. They’re back to being in an absolute state of chill, so relaxed that they can fall in sync while occupying the same space—same posture, eyes, and breath all moving in the same copacetic rhythm.
You can tell Brian is gearing up to apologize again. He starts with dipping his shoulder beneath John’s then waits for John to bump his right back and look his way. The eternal sign for you’re a dick and I still love you that Brian and John have mastered like a second language. “Sorry you can’t go back to L.A.” He gives his brother a slow up and down. “L.A. seems to have been good to you.”
Now John’s mood downshifts to sober and his cock-of-the-walk façade becomes brittle like new glass. “Don’t worry about it. I’d worn out my stay there anyway and should’ve cut out of there years before. Not sayin’ that it wasn’t good to me but still…” he cracks a weak smile, “— it’s a place where you weren’t the only one who made mistakes. Man, I’ll miss it and my stuff more than I’ll ever miss Barstow.”
“Like what stuff?”
“My house, my car, the club, friends, family,” John trails off now looking at you. It’s a sad sorta look that gets you down to your bones. Shit. “Not to keep you waiting,” John says, still looking at you but talking to Brian, “but the car was a Porsche 356 A Speedster.” He’s prouder than a new daddy.
Brian nods, approvingly. “Sounds respectable.”
“More than respectable. Jealous yet?”
“Not at all. That’s a nice ride but I like the kind you can build yourself.”
John slides his gaze from you to the rest of the warehouse, taking in the candy-painted cars in the corner. “Yeah, and I see your taste for Matchbox toys hasn’t changed.”
Brian lets the dig slide, just drinks his beer and bops his head to the music. “Where were you before you got here?” He finally asks.
“Before I heard about you getting stupid on a train, I was in Jamaica, handling some business.”
Brian nods like he totally understands the full meaning of John’s business. “What we’re about to do could help you go back there or wherever for a long time if you’ve got some ideas. Or it could be a huge failure. We’re still working out the kinks.”
“B, I don’t need your money. I have more than enough, probably more now than you’ll have even after this take—heist or whatever. So don’t worry about me, not like that, I sayin’.”
“Cool.” Brian offers, though John’s face suggests that everything is far from all right. You figure Brian’s got this, will catch up with John and figure out what’s gone down with him in the last couple of years and between the two of them they’ll reconcile their issues better than a daytime talk show host.
For now, it’s a safe bet that Brian will be pulling shadow duty on his brother until he feels John can be trusted with their oh-so nice company. You catch Brian smiling at Mia, then making eyes at Dom which you are so going to ask questions about later, and then going back to the Vulcan mind meld thing with John.
You figure things are looking up and start not to worry as much about John popping up being a bad omen for the plan. So you take it down a couple of notches and just cruise through the moment, already better than when the three of you tried to leave Barstow for the first time.
You snicker to yourself which gets Tej’s attention. “Something funny, Rome?” Tej asks.
You’re feeling good, riding a wave that tastes like beer with too many syllables and courses through veins like Red Bull set to Samba. “One time, we tried to leave Barstow, cuz I convinced Bri and J that we could hit L.A. and do the Entourage thing.”
Tej coughs into his fist, laughing, “Really?” Then he gives you a semi-hairy eyeball that makes you boomerang one back at him. “I’m not sure if I should call you Chocolate Turtle or ask whether Drama really is your middle name?”
“You’re one to talk, Hai Karate, so can I finish or what?” Tej makes a permissive gesture, so you keep going. “We were all siked to hit Hollywood and such til we realized we were broker than the water heater on your rickety houseboat. So, no money for bus tickets, we did the only thing we could.”
“I’m getting the feeling whatever you did became the reason parental warning labels are on just about everything.” Tej spins his hands around, miming hurry-up and finish. “Suspense is killing me, Rome.” He deadpans.
You continue without getting too caught up in remembering the good old days of acting the fool and pretending like you’d never heard of home-training. “To get there, we did the only thing we were pretty good at—boasted a car.”
“That didn’t work out so well for you, did it?” Tej drawls, sarcastically looking at you like you’re a special kind of snowflake. “Sucks that you guys couldn’t get there. Now, no one’s checking for your autograph unless it’s to make you pay for two seats: one for you and the other for your forehead.” Tej cracks back.
Okay, you’re even for now though you casually touch your forehead. It’s not that big, really it’s not.
You finish, “We were fifteen and stupid.” Which is not an excuse, just a statement of fact. You swear Tej mumbles something about still being dumb but he shuts his trap when you clear your throat and slice your eyes at him. “Anyway,” you dive in, rolling your eyes because you just want to finish the damn story, “we jacked the car and would’ve made it but didn’t have any gas money, so the po-po rolled up on us and then juvie. The end.” And juvie again and one more time after that until you learned how to not get caught and how to not be so broke.
Now that you think back on it, John’s sudden appearance is less like a soap opera reveal and more like a magician pulling a rabbit out of his hat and, knowing John, there’s bound to be a larger bigass rabbit hiding somewhere around here.
Brian’s your boy. Always has been and forever will be. John is, too. Though you suppose the nature of your brotherhood with him in far murkier and always burns too hot, and stupid you is the one who gets burned but, with another chance, you might consider doing it again. Ma’s always said that you have a hard head and good thing, too. Because between the two of them, you’ve already signed up for a lifetime of knocks.
Officially out of beer, you slide off your stool with the intention of hunting down some more. Verone’s money gave you an appreciation of million dollar taste; John’s beer only makes you more interested in listening to Toretto’s plan to sustain that taste.
Tej stops you before you get too far with an arm blocking your way. “Anything else we should know before we get too deep?”
You roll the bottle between your fingers and give up on trying to pronounce the series of too many consonants in the name. “Nunna, bruh.”
“What?” Tej gives you a look that dares to ask if you’re five.
So you just roll your eyes, already over this conversation and the fact-finding mission that it is. “I said, ‘nunna’, as in nunna-yo-business.” Then you stride off, actually smiling again since all’s on the up and up.
You take a quick look at Brian and John and nod. Some things, though infinitely complicated at the core, just go together.
The Brian and John story is not yours to tell. With the two of them live and in surround sound, you’ll leave it to them to fill in the blanks for everyone else. There’s just one thing you’ve got to do right now. That’s get a drink and make it a damn strong one.