My Dad is Way Worse than Your Dad

The Story of a Family Feud

I come from a big family, so big it would put 19th century Italian-Americans to shame. I’m also the oldest, which comes with its own baggage. If you’re a first-born son, you know what I’m talking about. All eyes on you, the combined expectations of an entire lineage, all that nonsense.

When I was younger Dad was cool. He was still a little strict for my taste, but he wasn’t some overbearing taskmaster. We all hung out and did the stuff families do. It should have been that way forever.

But then my dad changed. Sure, everyone changes as they get older, but this was different. He didn’t take up golf or convert the den into a giant diorama with model trains running around it or even start painting still life bowls of fruit. That would all have been fine.

No, my dad got a God-complex. You may protest that lots of fathers have this their whole lives, not just when they get old; maybe even your dad had one. This was not that. This was huge and, for me and some of my brothers, life changing.

I had always gone along with whatever Dad wanted, like a dutiful son should. I was never a suck-up about it like my brothers Mike and Gabe, those pansies, but I did what was expected of me. Dad would always tell the younger kids to “be like Lou.” I was always proud whenever he said that.

This new God-complex had gone entirely too far, though. First, he picked up a bunch of land. Sure, he paid next to nothing for it, but it wasn’t in a great neighborhood and would have almost no resale value. Then he started letting hordes of people live on it rent-free while still maintaining the place himself, with me and my brothers doing all the work. I could see my inheritance slipping slowly away, but he did not care.

“I know what I am doing, Lou,” he told me one day. “Besides, I love these people like they are my own children.”

After almost throwing up in my mouth, I asked the obvious question: “Why? They do nothing but complain and tear shit up.”

“Watch your language,” he said.

That’s what he always said when I cursed. What a freaking Puritan.

“They are good people at heart,” he continued. “In fact, I am leaving everything I own to them.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. We had always joked that his will was ineffable, but this was too much. This was early-onset dementia and a middle finger to me as the first-born all at the same time.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I screamed at him.

A blow to the side of my head knocked me to the ground. I thought at first that Dad had backhanded me (it would not have been the first time), but when I looked up he had not moved. I glanced to my left and saw Mike, fist still clenched and wearing his usual stupid smug grin. I jumped quickly to my feet.

“Nice sucker punch, you fucking coward,” I said. “Now I’m gonna beat your ass.”

“Language,” Dad said.

“Just because you always won when we were kids doesn’t mean you still can,” Mike said, though he did take half a step back.

“Enough,” Dad said. This one word always ended any argument between us. Until today.

“The hell with that,” I said. “You have lost your mind, old man. It is clearly time for me to take over this family. In fact, it is long past time.”

I lunged at him, and he made no move to evade me. Gabe coming out of nowhere and knocking me off balance with a shoulder block is all that kept me from reaching him. Now, by God, it was on.

I meant it when I said a change was long overdue. I had secretly been recruiting some of the younger kids to my side for a while now, and when I called out to them, they poured out of the house. The melee was on.

Dad stayed off to the side and watched his sons batter each other, ever the disinterested observer. If I could just get to him and bring him down, the rest would see he was not all-powerful and was no longer fit to lead us. But it was two against one; those assholes Mike and Gabe were tag-teaming me at every turn.

Even so, we were gaining ground. My little brothers had gone full batshit berserker (I only recruited the crazy ones) and even fighting together Mike and Gabe were yielding more to me with every blow. But just as I reached the old man, he pulled out what looked like a jagged, sawed-off pool cue and cracked the top of my skull with it. He smiled sadly at me as I crumpled to the ground, and just before I lost consciousness I heard him say:

“Michael, Gabriel, you know where to take him.”

I woke up what felt like an eternity later to a curious face peering down at me. I slowly got to my feet, legs still a little wobbly, and looked around. I recognized the place, and was furious.

“Are you okay, friend?” the man asked me.

I did not reply, my rage growing by the second. This was not possible.

“My name’s William,” he said, still trying to be cordial. “What’s yours?”

“My family calls me Lou,” I finally answered, and with a flick of a blade pulled from my sleeve I slit the man’s throat. “But you can call me Lucifer.”

I stared down at the lifeless form. Fucking humans. Dad had banished me to the land of his precious pets. Well, he would pay for this, and so would they.