Last night, I wrote 2K on Twinergy.

Twinergy is my new mainstream fic about two eleven year old twins–both geniuses–who start a new life after being caught by the FBI for stealing credit card data from black market sites and then selling it back to them. Now the two home boys who lived without parents for three years will have to adapt to yuppie life with their new white parents and personal surveillance officer.

Is it awesome? No. Is it writing? Yes! And lots of it. That’s phenominal, considering my word count since last November rivals last night’s output. So here’s chapter one (in the raw) for your perusal…

ALLEN

It was blowing up the neighbor’s car that humped us. We were sitting on a plane next to Fed the fed, on our way to a new life, not because we ripped off crooks for several G’s, not because we dumped ma’s dead body in a river, not even for catching a warehouse on fire. No, just a simple case of loud music, one strip of magnesium, and a bowl of home brewed thermite.

The whole thing went down something like this…

“What’s so special about it?” Aaron is eternally like this. He stares at the graffiti on the brick and sees traffic regulations, polygons, and cosines. Eleven year olds should see more than cosines when they look at graffiti.

“It’s… beautiful, I dunno. Can’t you just look at it?” That’s me, eternally convinced that somehow I can make him see a world without rules—Matrix style. I hope to give up this addiction to futility before turning eighteen.

“It has good composition, nice use of negative space. Homeboy got down with complimentary colors, it’s tight. The entire piece was designed to vitalize the cobalt hues… but I don’t–”

“Dammit, can’t you just look at it with your eyes for once?” I glance around once before popping the hood on the metallic purple, lowered pimp-ride emblazoned with “Love Mobeel” on the back bumper. The thing doesn’t even have back seats; it’s nothing more than a giant speaker mounted on four wheels. If the owner could have replaced the engine with another speaker? He would have.

That’s where we are right now, staring at the filthy engine which has probably never even had so much of an oil change. Like everything else in our neighborhood, the only thing anyone cares about is the outside appearance. That’s about to change, though…

“You’re eleven years old. You can’t say dammit.” Right, we’re eleven. Old enough to live without a mom but not to say dammit.

It takes me almost a minute to wrestle the hood up and prop it. Then I glance around one more time before I turn on Aaron. “This is what I’m talking about. Your entire world is about rules. Can’t you just look at the world like a blank page just once? Just look at it and see how you can bend them.”

“Bend what?”

“The rules!”

“The rules of what?”

“Look. Never mind. Let’s just finish blowing up this looser’s ride and jet before someone notices us.”

“Fine. Do you have the magnesium rope?”

“Yep.” I pull it out.

Aaron produces a Ziploc full of thermite with an enormous grin and scrambles up on the bumper. He puts the magnesium right in the center of the engine block, pours the home-brewed thermite over top. “The thermite will burn right through the block and the pavement too,” Aaron assures me. Aaron is never wrong about anything with an equation, so I just grin back. 

He hops down and gives me the nod. I light the magnesium with a tiny chemistry torch, and it flares white hot and brighter than the sun. We turn and run… right into a cop car.

If we had that one to do again, I don’t know that I’d change a thing. It was quite satisfying to watch it burn, purple pimp running around it screaming threats and apologizing to the cops at the same time. The cops tiny extinguisher was useless, the neighbor’s hose a joke, and when the fire department arrived, they just backed everyone away and watched it burn. Aaron was right: It burned right through the block and the pavement below it too.

Aaron. Aaron, who was still going on with Fed as the plane lifted off the runway. “We don’t really need looking after, we’ve been on our own almost four years now.”

“Yeah, and you’ve managed a good heap of trouble in that time, Aaron.” Fed says. His name is Tom Harding. It sounds like a good name for a federal marshal, but we just call him Fed the fed for the alliterative quality.

And who says “heap of trouble,” anyways? I looked him over and wondered if he was in his fifties or five hundreds. Did Noah have a son named Fed the fed? Probably.

“I’m not Aaron, that’s Aaron.” Aaron, said. He loves this game.

Fed looked us both over, brow furrowed. “Don’t feed me that, boy. I’ve heard enough fast ones.”

How did he always know? Not even our dear ma could tell us apart. But Fed never missed. Aaron grinned and shrugged at me. “It’s because I look so much smarter.”

“Right.” I rolled my eyes. “You etiolate me with your nescience.”

Aaron laughed. Here, Fed couldn’t compete, so he stayed silent.

The captain came over the intercom: “Good morning twins, feds, and other passengers. Today we’ll be wrecking your life at an altitude of twenty thousand feet, scheduled to land at your incredibly boring new home in Seattle in approximately eight hours and eleventy billion minutes…”

At least, he said something close to that. I was already dozing off as Aaron continued to argue in vain over our new identities, new lives, other arguments that some formula told him he had approximately point zero one and not-a-damned chance of winning.

None of that mattered. All I cared about was them taking all the money. Without the money, there was no chance of going to Japan. And the only two things I wanted to do in my life were see Japan and climb Fuji.