By R.J. Tennyson
The V in V. Maximilian Youngblood’s name stood for Vergil. He hated the name Vergil, he hated his parents for calling him Vergil, and that’s why he asked everyone to call him Max. Everyone did – except his family.
Max sat at one end of the mushroom-coloured leather sofa, and Philip Youngblood sat at the other. They each held black plastic video-game controllers in their podgy sausage finger hands. Their matching hazel eyes were glued tight to the ridiculously large television mounted on the wall in front of them.
“Shit,” Max cursed, as the outer-space roaming soldier he was controlling, took a laser blast right between the eyes, the back of its head exploding like a microwaved egg.
“Shit. Shit,” mimicked Philip.
“Enough of that language you two,” called a voice from the next room. “I’m not deaf, I can hear you.”
“Yes, Mum,” Philip called back.
Max turned and looked at Philip through narrowed eyes. “Yes, Mummy. Yes, Mummy. You are such a suck, Philip.”
“I might be a suck, but at least I know how to play this game without getting killed every five minutes. You’re so crap at video games VERGIL, you big dumb… dickhead.”
Max’s eyes narrowed further, now reduced to little more than seething slits. “You know you’re not allowed to call me that! Anyway, this is my game, Philip, and if you’re going to be a little smart-arse I won’t let you play it with me.”
“MUM, he’s swearing at me again!” Philip called, a grin stretched from one of his sticking-out ears, to the other.
“VERGIL, HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU?” She was shouting now.
“HE STARTED IT. HE CALLED ME A DICKHEAD!”
The tinny crash of a pot being thrown into the kitchen sink rang out, followed by the thud of footsteps on the hardwood floorboards.
A woman appeared at the doorway. Her straight, deep red hair was cut at the shoulders. Her slow-burning plump round face grew three shades brighter, as though her thermometer was ready to blow.
“Why can’t you two just play nicely?” she asked.
“It wasn’t me. It was Phil…”
“ENOUGH!” She took deep a breath, counted to four and exhaled slowly. “Vergil darling, please show the level of maturity I expect from you. We’ve discussed this a million times…”
“But…”
“No buts! Philip is a lot younger than you, and I need you to set a good example.”
He stared at his feet. One of his big toes was poking through a hole in a black and grey argyle sock. He slowly sighed the groan of a sad trombone. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Philip was smiling like the Cheshire Cat.
“And Philip, you can wipe that stupid grin from your face.”
Philip’s smile dissolved like a sickly sweet sugar cube dropped into scalding water. “Sorry Mummy,” he groaned.
“Good. Now boys, just play nice like a normal father and son!”
R.J. Tennyson - Writer 