When I used to tell people that I had a bullet for a brother they thought I was threatening to shoot a black man. I’ve since had to change my wording to “My brother is a bullet”.
When my mother was in labour with my little brother, some crack-fiends rushed into the hospital looking for some morphine. They had a gun, the shoot-shoot kind. They burst into the delivery room where my mother lay. They shot her.
As fate would have it, the bullet entered her womb and hit my unborn brother in the head. The momentum of the bullet was so strong that it burst his brain out of his head and out of my mother’s sweet back. The tiny brain pierced the wall, entered the next room and smashed into a vial of green liquid; a new secret formula called Chemical X. Somehow the brain tissue merged with the lead of the bullet, creating a piece of metal capable of communicating telepathically with humans and certain breeds of dog. It’s been hard on all of my family, to say the least.
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