Fear Nothing

the table.
        The air was thick and damp. You could feel the skin of the storm swelling like a balloon. It would burst soon.
        After taking a swallow of the icy Corona, I said to Bobby, “Okay, bro, before I tell you the rest of it, Orson has a little demonstration for you.”
        “I've got all the Tupperware I need.”
        I called Orson to my side. “There are some throw pillows on the living-room sofas. One was a gift from me to Bobby. Would you go get it for him, please?”
        Orson padded out of the room.
        “What's going on?” Bobby wondered.
        Sitting down with her beer, Sasha grinned and said, “Just wait.” Her.38 Chiefs Special was on the table. She unfolded a paper napkin and covered the weapon with it. “Just wait.”
        Every year, Bobby and I exchange gifts at Christmas. One gift each. Because we both have everything we need, value and usefulness are not criteria when we shop. The idea is to give the tackiest items that can be found for sale. This has been a hallowed tradition since we were twelve. In Bobby's bedroom are shelves on which he keeps the collection of tasteless gifts that I've given to him; the only one he finds insufficiently tacky to warrant space on those shelves is the pillow.
        Orson returned to the kitchen with this inadequately tacky item in his mouth, and Bobby accepted it, trying to look unimpressed with the dog's feat.
        The twelve-by-eight-inch pillow featured a needlepoint sampier on the front. It was among items that had been manufactured byand sold to raise funds for-a popular television evangelist.
        Inside an elaborate border were eight words in scrollwork stitching: JESUS EATS SINNERS AND SPITS OUT SAVED SOULS.
        “You didn't find this tacky?” Sasha asked disbelievingly.
        “Tacky, yes,” Bobby said, strapping the loaded ammo belt around his waist without getting up from his chair. “But not tacky enough.”
        “We have awesomely high standards,” I said.
        The year after I gave Bobby the pillow, I presented him with a ceramic sculpture of Elvis Presley. Elvis is depicted in one of his glitziest white-silk-and-sequins Vegas stage ouffits while sitting on the toilet where he died; his hands are clasped in prayer, his eyes are raised to Heaven, and there's a halo around his head.
        In this yuletide competition, Bobby is at a disadvantage because he on actually going into gift shops in search of the perfect sh. Because of my XP, I am restricted to mail order, where one tra can find enough catalogs of exquisitely tacky merchandise to fill all the shelves in the Library of Congress.
        Turning the pillow over in his hands, frowning at Orson, Bobby said, “Neat trick.”
        “No trick,” I said. “There were evidently a lot of different experiments going on at Wyvern. One of them dealt with enhancing the intelligence of both humans and animals.”
        “Bogus.”
        “Truth.”
        “Insane.”
        “Entirely.”
        I instructed Orson to take the pillow back where he'd found it, then to go to the bedroom, nudge open the sliding door, and return with one of the black dress loafers that Bobby had bought when he'd discovered that he had only thongs, sandals, and athletic shoes to wear to my mother's memorial service.
        The kitchen was redolent with the aroma of pizza, and the dog gazed longingly at the oven.
        “You'll get your share,” I assured him. “Now scoot.”
        As Orson started out of the kitchen, Bobby said, “Wait.”
        Orson regarded him expectantly.
        “Not just a shoe. And not just a loafer. The loafer for my left foot.
        Chuffing as if to say that this complication was insignificant, Orson proceeded on his errand.
        Out over the Pacific, a blazing staircase of lightning connected the heavens to the sea, as if signaling the descent of archangels. The subsequent crash of thunder rattled the windows and reverberated in the cottage walls.
        Along this temperate coast, our storms are rarely accompanied by pyrotechnics of this kind. Apparently we were scheduled for a major hammering.
        I put a can of red-pepper flakes on the table, then paper plates and the insulated serving pads on which Sasha placed the pizzas.
        “Mungojerrie,” said Bobby.
        “It's a name from a book of poems about cats.”
        “Seems pretentious.”
        “It's cute,” Sasha