The brothers sit across from each other in their dusty kitchen, ruminating. Sam is behind his ever-present Royal KMG typewriter, absentmindedly tapping away at the keys. His older brother, Willem, takes notes on a writing tablet. The room is almost silent, except for the drip from the faucet. The pace is fast and it's clearly distracting Sam. "I really wish my mom would hire a plumber, that noise is unbearable," Sam says with burning contempt. Willem responds to his younger brother's indulgent complaint with such patience and reserve as if to mock his brother. “Little brother, you could probably ask a plumber if the noise is so uncomfortable.” Heavy with satire, he continues; “To be honest, I started to like the regular drip. It reminds me of happier times, when my mother was with us. Willem smiled inwardly at his own words, as if he had made a brilliant joke. Willem and Sam's mother had died years ago, and yet so little in their lives had changed. They continue to live together in their childhood home, which hasn't seen a mop or broom since their mother fell ill. Moth-chewed curtains hang from filthy windows, where they have not been broken or covered. A musty smell of aging wood and a dying matriarch makes the air heavy and confining. Newspapers and old notebook sheets bury most of the furniture. The walls and ceilings are rotting, the floors are covered in years of dust and freshly crumbled sheets of paper, and forgotten jars line every shelf and counter. Their home is far from happy and very close to total collapse. While both brothers could be seen as responsible for the state of their once habitable home, Sam in particular is very fond of jarred meals and Sunday comics, and is......in the middle of a paper......ck in a pool of blood. Willem seems almost sincere when he says, "You've always been one to put on a show, huh, brother?" Sitting in Sam's chair, Willem rummages through a pile of unused pages to find one with as little blood as possible. His discoveries are far from perfect, but all it takes is one sheet to finally complete his best work yet. Willem feeds the sheet into the Royal and adjusts it until the roller rings, signaling him to begin his work. Willem taps deliberately, one hard touch at a time. He must be typing this way, because the hair wrapped around the Royal's arms has seriously hampered his otherwise excellent typing skills. Slowly, as the blood mixes with the ink, the words begin to form and a calm smile spreads from one cheek to the other as Willem rejoices in his final victory: “Taken without honor or humanity – By Willem and Sam Forastiere. A sharing book. 3 years and over.”