"Ahh know. But ahh still don't feel right about it." his brother Arnie replied.

Arnie was a dour sort of man...used to doing the hard work, and never bitching about it. Boy, he could tie one on, and when he did, he would get mean. Not mean in the sense of take-your-lunch-money mean, but mean like a man who has seen the harder side of life, and didn't mind introducing people to a little bit of the Old Cruelty.

"Just sit tight. He should be over any minute," Tim said anxiously, peering out the front window of his 85 year old colonial home, waiting for a certain Brian Bishop to arrive.

It had been an odd sort of problem.

Brian first moved to the area fifteen years ago, bright eyed, and fresh faced, wearing Buddy Holly type glasses and cuffed blue jeans that belied the keen intellect that dwelled there. He was a surly sort, and put a premium on the little details in life. The kind of guy who didn't take risks, and after buying an expensive japaneese stereo system, would take it apart and re-configure the wiring to a better specification. He never liked dogs, and ridiculed the safety risks of motorcycle riding.

Brian, was liked, if not well liked when he was a sober man. A few years back, we were all at some girls birthday party, and despite years of protest and condemnation, Tim got him to try a beer. It had all been down hill after that.

Brian stopped shaving, for one, and let his hair grow out. And drinking made him surly. He was an overbearing type of drunk. Like that time we were all at the Depot, a local dive bar that had live music, and he grabbed the lead guitarist by the front of his shirt between songs, pulled him to his maw to mumble in a gravelly voice,"...play that song. You do it. You play that song."

It took a lot of effort to get him out of that bar in one peice, and some of us saw it as only the beginning.

One by one, he had alienated us all. Whether it was lifiting the skirt of a girl he didn't know (one of Tim's clients) or biting the neck and shoulder of Arnie's wife when he wasn't around, Brian had gone beyond the bounds of socially accepted behavior. It had gotten worse after his girlfriend had left him, Tina, a smart and attractive girl who must have been awed by the waste of a good mind.

His clumsy lecherous advances that bordered on sexual harassment, the constant posturing, and nuisance of having to account for that bastard had worn thin with each and every one of us. It had been a personality shift in the extreme. What once had been a keen human, was now a dull dirty biker sort, with fleabag dog, beat up motorcycle and truly cloying personality in tow.

Something had to be done. But no one quite knew exactly what.

Brian pulled up to Tim's house on the north side of town with his usual awkward impression of savior-faire', stumbling as he dismounted his bike, nearly knocking the motorcycle over, tripping as he walked up the steps, and accidentally spitting on his own boot as he tried to non-chalantly ring the doorbell, and lean on the wall at the same time.

Truth be known, I think he was nervous. After all, none of us had spoken to him in six months, and here were the Bettman brothers, calling him over out of the blue for a friendly little chat and a beer.

"C'mon in, c'mon in, Brian. Good to see you." Tim said, hustling Brian in through the front door.

"Same to you, brother," Brian rasped in his gravelly voice, which, oddly enough a few years ago had been clear as a bell.

Grabbing Tim by the collar, Brian pulled him close. "Glad I could make you happy. You do what makes you happy. You do it. How's that pretty little wifey of yuirs?"

Arnie stepped forward to dislodge Brian's fist from Tim's shirt.

"Funny you should ask that, Brian. That's what we asked you over here to talk about." Tim said, maintiaining composure.

"What's that, pardner?" Brian asked.

"Well, Brian, we couldn't help but notice a change in you..."

"Yeah.. Yah. Hell yeah."

"And to be frank...its a little disappointing."

"Huh?"

"Wellll, like the grabbing of people's shirts. Telling us how to punish our kids. Hitting on our wives. Scaring away girls, clients, friends....all that type of shit."

"Is that right?" Brian said with arrogance, cockiness, and a little genuine surprise. Who knows what sort of delusions that bastard had been laboring under.

"YEAH THAT'S FUCKIN' RIGHT YOU FU-" Arnie exploded, causing Brian to recoil in shock.

"Arnie, just wait a second. Basically, Brian, you have burned all your bridges, and have descended into a fantasy world, a world soaked in alcohol and delusions. And we can't help but feel a little bit responsible."

"And..." Brian prodded.

"Well, son, you've been dancing the dance, now its time to pay the piper."

"What? What're you...wait!...hold on a sec..."

"Nawww...you're our responsiblility, and now, we're taking care of it." Arnie drawled.

"Get ready son, 'cause here it comes. Time to learn a fuckin' lesson." Tim said with acclereated breaths.

"guys?...guys..."

The first couple of smacks were open handed to the face and forehead. Brian crouched and cowered, sobbing.

The brothers paused, looking at one another.

"Brian, you give stink-eye to the rest of the herd, and the herds gonna' take care of yah." Arnie muttered, resuming the beating.

And let me just say, they fairly whaled the snot out of him. He begged and pleaded, sobbed and wailed, all to no avail. When they were finished kicking him, they stood over him while he bawled like a baby in the fetal position.

"Well, Brian, this was for the best. I hope you learned something. You want that beer now?"

In response, Brian shreiked, staggered to his feet and fled.

We didn't see Brian for awhile after that. Rumor had it that he had cleaned up, gone straight, and was once again a respectable human with a good job.

'Course, a few years down the line, he got married, and then his wife left him for the local head of the Masonic Temple. And as if losing a chick isn't bad enough, losing her to one of those boring fuckers is a devestating blow. How was he to know that she was an old-school Masonic groupie, travelling across the country, temple to temple, fellating Mason's by the dozen at a their ritual meetings?

So he hung himself with his belt, and left a note that said,"I guess I ain't no good to nobody."

Nothing sorrier than a suicide note written with bad grammar.

All in all, maybe we should have just left well enough alone.