The TV lady is looking straight into the camera, straight at Conor.

"Fucking Bitch!" He throws his half-finished beer can at the TV. Conor aims high, on purpose. His arm remains outstretched, his hand in the air pointing upwards as he turns his head from the explosion. The can cracks against the artificial wood paneling. White foam spews and splatters.

"Oh, is baby upset?" A woman's voice comes from the mess of blankets at the far end of the trailer. "Come here, babe, tell me what is wrong."

"Fuck her, fuck them all."

The news anchor woman seems unaffected by the projectile and the swearing, and continues with her report: with corporate profits at an all time high, it is just a matter of time before this windfall translates into higher paying jobs.

The woman in the bed moans louder. "Oh, never mind that, babe. Why does the news make you so upset? I can make you feel better." She sits up, arches her back and wiggles her ample chest in his direction. Conor throws her a quick glance, stands and approaches the TV set. With a violent kick, his foot descends on the power cord to the old television set, and Lucinda Quant's make up, facelift and painted eyebrows disappear into the spark of darkness, and the news anchor is no more.

"Sorry babe, not tonight. I'm going home." Conor finds his T-shirt on the sofa and slides it over his head. He looks around the trailer for anything else that might be his. He doubts he will be back here again. He is pissed that he wasted half a beer.

"Are you going to clean up your mess, asshole?" The door slams, the trailer shakes.

Conor walks past the trailers to the road. Lights are on. People are home from work or out at work or out of work. It's all the same bullshit to them. It's not late, not early.

He heads toward town and wishes he had a jacket. Fuck. He doesn't hate himself for being cold. It is his fault—no one else's. His hand reaches into his pocket, moves around a few coins and a bill. He still has bit of cash. He's good, for now.

Up ahead the pink and purple neon of the PixelDust sign flashes. He likely has enough for a beer, maybe two. But then again, that won't be his crowd in there. High tech pimps and coding whores, pulling tricks to get their IPO, then off they'll go. Offshore, somewhere. Sure, there will be jobs all right: yacht cleaning, security guards, someone to return the empties. See, there is always an opportunity if you play it right. Just like they're doing, playing it right. It's not cheating if you get away with it. That is what Stan always thought about him. But Stan didn't know shit then, still doesn't.

Stan just sees the world a little different. The big brother chip on his shoulder, always thinking that he has it so hard. Thing is, Conor thinks, I get my shit for free and nobody gets hurt-except maybe that woman in the trailer, what was her name, but she'll get over it soon enough.

Conor passes the PixelDust and the smell of grease from the chicken wing joint next door wafts down the road.

"Con!" The voice hits him from behind. A shot in the back. He turns to face his brother.

Stan is getting out of his car, a Volkswagen diesel. The alarm bleeps that the car is safe.

"Hey, Conor. I thought that was you. Can tell you by the way you walk. I was gonna pop into the PixelDust for a pint. You in? I'm buying."

He has gotta hand it to Stan. Sure, he'll take him up on a free beer, maybe even work a few whisky shots out of him, because that's what brothers do. He'll listen to his bullshit about how great his car is and what he is going to do with his stock options from the robotics company, and brag about the chick he is boning these days. He'll pat Stan on the back and say that's great. He'll be the little brother. Then he'll hit him up for a loan.

The place is loud. Bright lights from TV screens, video games, beer ads. Lots of guys are still hanging around after work, a few girls, most with guys. Two girls sit at a table with tall cocktails, likely underage. The Think Tank, the quiet lounge area purposely built for engaging discussion, is empty. Stan and Conor make their way to a table next to the girls and Stan waves the waitress over.

"What will it be boys?"

"Beer, cold. And a shot of Jack."

"Ok, make that two," Stan says and passes her his credit card.

"Sure, love." The waitress looks at Conor and smiles.

Conor knows it's coming. The questioning will be a prerequisite for the drinks; the lecture will be the requirement for the loan. It's the game. Conor's role is to make Stan regret pulling the older brother, holier-than-thou bullshit, have a bit of fun with it, and still come out a couple hundred bucks ahead. He'll be the little brother.

The drinks come. Conor's shot of Jack Daniels disappears before it hits the table. He mouths to the waitress for two more before Stan touches his. She smiles in agreement.

"So, Con, what have you been up to these days?"

"You know, a bit of this, bit of that. Making the best of it, keeping ahead of the law."

Stan will start: Why can't you just be like everyone else?

What is so bad about having a job?

Be a contributing member of society.

Shape up little brother.

You always felt entitled to take, take, take.

Like my Swiss Army knife.

Look at me, I'm settling down.

There is even a girl now, one that might be the real thing.

Conor says: "like what was her name-oh ya, Crystal."

"Fuck you!"

"I was doing you a favour, you know."

Stan is stilled pissed about that night. He thinks Conor stole his girl, but he doesn't know shit. The girl was a skank. Stan deserved better, and he was just helping his brother realize it. He came upstairs to find his little bro with his pants down and Stan's new chick on her knees. If that isn't brotherly love, what is? It threw a curve into the meet-the-girlfriend dinner with the folks though.

"Hey, man. I'm sorry she went down that way. Let's get another round. Make-up shots." Conor slaps his brother's back and signals the waitress for a couple more.

The TV lady is back. The large screen projects her image. Reminds him of those pictures of dictators, Chairman Mao, except she is anchoring the nightly news on BSN. Still state propaganda, he thinks, disguised as freedom of the press. Mouthpiece for the status quo, spinning the party line.

"She's looking old," Stan points to the screen, at Lucinda Quant's silent image mouthing comforting words that they can't hear. "You can see her makeup from here. Time to get a new hottie up there. That's the only way you'll get me watching the news now."

Conor looks: the plastic façade, the makeup, the Botox, all attempts to create a pretty appearance, but underneath, things are getting ugly. Rotting, in fact. The centre cannot hold.

"Ya, she'll be replaced by a pretty young thing soon. Nobody wants to watch old and ugly. They'll fabricate some minor scandal about her that will be on the cover of the tabloids for a week, suspend her, she'll make an apology or find God or something, then the network will give Lucinda Quant her own show. The ratings will be even higher, and the network will still win because now they have some hot sexpot in a short skirt reading the news. Face it, it's easier for the morons of this country to believe their bullshit when it is delivered by a blond bombshell."

"Fuck Conor, why do you have to be so down all the time? It wouldn't hurt you to lighten up a bit. Be normal."

Conor shoots back his whisky. "Sure, just be another dupe of the system, another corporate ass-kisser." He doesn't say the other things: dick-less, coward, fraud. Stan knows what he thinks about him.

Stan snorts a laugh. "Well, at least I have a future. Soon I'll have the money I need. I'm free to do what I want."

That's a joke. Stan doesn't get it, doesn't understand that he is already a prisoner. Sure, he'll live under the illusion that he has freedom, but he will never realize that he is serving a life sentence, hard labour with no chance of parole.

"But you, Conor, you have nothing. You're nothing more than a common criminal, pulling your scams."

"So, I am a criminal because, why? Help me out here?"

"Because you break the law."

"So, if cheating and lying and stealing were not against the law, they would be okay? That is your measure of morality?" Conor can feel the effects of the whisky and the beer now. They have been drinking pretty hard since they got here, on Stan's bill. He is just getting going.

Stan stares at him. Conor finds it funny, enjoying seeing his brother backed into the corner like this. He is going to milk this for all it's worth.

"Let me get this straight: the guys who are shafting you day and night with your stupid robotics job and leading you on with your phoney stock options; keeping the game going, doubling down each time with low interest mortgages to keep you working your ass off; they lay off a few thousand workers to meet their earnings expectations so they can get their bonus, and live tax free in some protected shelter—sure, they aren't breaking the rules because they made those rules themselves? So, there is nothing wrong with that picture because no law is being broken? But me, I'm a criminal because why? Because I dine and dash every now and then? Tell me, who is the fucking criminal, really?"

Stan doesn't answer. He stands and makes his way to the washroom. Conor motions to the waitress for two more rounds and points to the empty chair. The waitress flashes him a smile and knows to put it on Stan's tab. The two girls next to him giggle and Conor walks over to them.

"Hey," he says, "you girls going to be here much longer?"

"Maybe," one of the girls answers.

"I might join you then. My name is Conor." He extends his hand to her. They both giggle and he feels good.

"I am Sandi," the athletic-looking one says and shakes his hand, slowly.

"I'm Veronica," says the other ones with a pretty smile. They look young.

"Are you girls students or something?"

"Yes—I mean no," they laugh. "Okay, we go to school together," they say in unison.

"Well, I'll be back in a bit with some drinks for you girls. Don't go away."

Stan returns. He sees four beer lined up at their table, plus a couple of whisky shots. Conor chuckles, you are gonna love this, bro.

"You up for a bit of a wager, Stan?" Conor sits down and lines the drinks in front of them. He knows Stan will take this bet. He is such a sucker.

"Here's the deal," Conor explains, "I bet you that I can drink these three glasses of beer before you can down that one shot." He is going to do it, Conor is sure.

"No way. You are going to cheat, like you always do."

"Am not. If I cheat, you win it all. Promise."

"What's the wager?" Stan asks.

"Two hundred bucks—as a loan. If I win, you'll lend me two hundred to hold me over until I get a job. I'll pay you back. Promise."

"What's in it for me? You don't have shit."

This. Connor reaches into his pocket and throws a Swiss Army knife onto the table.

"You bastard! That's the knife you stole from me!" Stan is pissed. Connor chuckles. He knows this will seal it.

"I won it from you, fair and square, remember? Now is your chance to win it back." He sees Stan's face get red. Perfect. He knows how pissed Stan was when he scammed him out of that knife years ago, the one he had worked so hard to buy with the money he earned from delivering the morning paper.

"You are going to cheat. I know you. You are going to knock the glass out of my hand or something." Stan is rambling now. This is too good.

Ok, let's make a few rules then. You seem to think that rules will make it right, Conor thinks.

"Tell you what, we'll make a rule that we can't touch the other guy's glass. But the little brother goes first: you need to give me a one beer head start. I still need to drink two whole beers in the time you have to drink one ounce of whisky."

Stan is still reluctant, but eventually says, "deal." He counts out some bills and places them on the table next to the Swiss Army knife. "You are a prick."

Sandi and Veronica are looking across at the action. This is sweet, thinks Conor.

Conor lines up the beer and looks across the table at Stan. He is staring at the knife. Conor smiles and raises the glass in a toast. He begins to chug the beer and in one long pull, guzzles the entire pint. But rather than slamming the empty glass to the table, Conor flips it over and places it upside down over Stan's full shot glass. Stan looks at him in shock and Conor smiles.

"You can't touch my glass—rules!" Conor reaches to take the money and the pocket knife.

The first punch is nowhere close. Stan, in his fury, tries to reach across the table with the swing but Conor knows that there is no chance of it reaching him. For the second punch, Stan tries to come around the table but Conor is able to take a step back and watch Stan's fist flash past him in a blur. The third punch doesn't even get delivered. The bouncer catches Stan's arm while it is still behind his head and pins it hard into his back. Conor is standing with his arms raised in surrender, shaking his younger-brother head from side to side, wasn't me, wasn't me.

"You are out of here asshole," the bouncer shouts and pushes Stan toward the door. Stan looks back at Conor with rage, with disgust. With loss.

Conor pockets the cash and the Swiss Army knife. He downs Stan's whisky in one quick shot, grabs the three untouched beer and the last whisky shot, and moves to the table next to him.

"Here you go ladies."