Disclaimer: Not mine.

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"I win again!" Chelsea cried, slamming her tiny fists into the technicolor slab of cardboard and sending both her and Mark's game pieces flying. "You know, you really suck at this game..."

Rolling his eyes, Mark pushed the glasses that seemed too big for his head up the bridge of his nose and sighed. Roger had been gone for a couple hours now, and because his parents weren't home, Mark was left with his job of babysitting Roger's hyperactive little sister. He had promised to return as soon as possible, but so far Mark didn't see any evidence of that promise being kept. Sighing despondently once more, Mark cleaned up the game of 'Chutes and Ladders', carrying the box to the closet in the hallway just as the front door was flung open. With a squeak he leapt back, the game flying out of his hands and landing on the ground, the pieces scattering everywhere.

Roger hurled himself through the door, slammed it behind him, and leaned up against it, his eyes closed tightly as he struggled to catch his breath, his face cast skyward. Chelsea was at Mark's side now and staring at her older brother questioningly, Mark mirroring her look of confusion. They waited for Roger to catch his breath, silently demanding an explanation.

As soon as Roger had recovered he locked every available lock on the front door, peered out the peephole, then dragged himself, half limping, into the living room, muttering inanely. As he passed by his best friend, Mark noticed that Roger's hair was matted with blood and let out a queasy moan. "Fuck fuck fuck," Roger murmered as he stalked into the next room, Chelsea scolding him for exposing her to such language and Mark steadying himself against the wall, his face chalk-white. "Damn-shit fuck."

Chelsea watched fearfully as her dour brother sank into the couch, holding a hand to his bleeding head and still grumbling every curse word in the book. After gathering his nerves, Mark shimmied into the living room and began in a weak voice, "What's wro-"

"I THOUGHT YOU'D NEVER FUCKING ASK!"

Exchanging startled glances, Chelsea and Mark backed away as Roger stood up, no doubt preparing to reenact the situation he had just endured in the most vulgar manner possible. "Alright, so, I was at this chick's house, right?" Roger started, his eyes ablaze with bitter recollection. "Janice, you know her."

"Janice? But... but you told me you were out running errands!"

Totally brushing off Mark's comment as though he hadn't even spoken, Roger continued. "So we were making out on the front porch, right? I know you'd be interested, Marky, since you don't much action, but I can't give all the details while there's a young woman present..." His eyes flashed over Chelsea and she made a face as if to say 'that's never bothered you before'. "I tried to slip her a little tongue but she wouldn't oblige. Turns out she was a Puritan or some shit like that? Said her father was really strict and didn't approve of her liking boys. I don't know what the hell that means, guess he wants her to be a lesbian or something."

He closed his eyes for a moment, his mind probably taking the idea of lesbians and running free with it, but suddenly he snapped back to reality and continued. "Oh, yeah, so anyways..." He droned on, scratching the bridge of his freckled nose and squinting in concentration as he tried to recall where he left off. "Oh yeah. So alla the sudden I feel this… this thing embed itself into the back of my head."

"Embed?" Mark risked interrupting.

"Roger, you don't even know what that word means," Chelsea added with a sneer.

Not deeming his younger sibling worthy enough to acknowledge with words, Roger simply flipped her off and continued. "Hurt like hell, you can't even begin to imagine," he said, taking yet another dramatic pause, this time holding up his hand, bloodied from touching the wound on his head. "Turns out the father was coming home from work, saw us, grabbed a shovel, and took a whack at my head. Fuckin' weirdo."

By this point Mark's eyes were so wide they looked as though they might burst forth from their sockets. Chelsea, on the other hand, found her brother's ranting entertaining and tried her hardest to restrain from laughing. Roger prepared to speak again but reeled suddenly, looking as though he might faint, but then he grabbed the arm of the couch and regained his balance. "He started chasing me. Down the street..." Roger said, his consciousness slipping as head trauma took its toll. "All the time he was waving that shovel! Threatened to chop... well, chop it off. Y'know. With a shovel! Of all the sick ways to threaten people! Some Puritan!"

Chelsea couldn't contain herself any longer, and seeing that Roger was far too weak to pass on a new generation of injuries to her, she exploded into laughter. He didn't seem to mind; in fact, he fell backwards and landed with a soft thud on the couch, his sister's taunting laughter clearly the least of his concerns. Mark gasped and ran to his best friend's side, but Chelsea, oblivious to the seriousness of the situation, continued to giggle.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Mark froze, thoughts of all the possible people it could be speeding through his mind. He was hoping it was Roger's mother; she would know what to do. Of course, Mrs. Davis would kill Roger when she found out how he acquired such an injury, but if it were Roger's father there wouldn't even be a need to explain. He'd kill both Roger and Mark right then and there before they could even utter a word in their defense. Crossing his fingers, Mark made his way to the door, leaving Chelsea to tend to her brother (or just laugh at him some more as he came to).

Standing on his toes, Mark peered out the peephole of the door. There was a man out on the front step but he was too small, too feeble, and too old to be Mr. Davis. However, Mark didn't want to take any chances. He sped back into the living room as Roger sat up, blinking deliriously while the doorbell rang. "Why didn't you answer it?" Chelsea snapped at Mark as soon as he entered her presence.

"It's a stranger," Mark squeaked unsurely.

With a scoff Chelsea went into the hallway, and without even bothering to look outside she opened the door. Mark began to think up an escape plan and he could tell by the concentration on Roger's face that his brain, as incapacitated as it was with pain, was doing the same. A feeble voice floated down the hall and Mark, driven on by curiosity, poked his head out. Roger was right behind him, his chin nearly resting on top of Mark's tufts of blonde hair as he looked at the man in the doorway.

"Sonny, are you alright?" the old man asked with concern, his voice shaky with age and all his 's's sounding as though they were whistled.

Roger blinked once more, but then froze suddenly as a look of dread seized his features. Mark noticed this and looked questioningly from the man to Roger, then back to the man again. "I was raking and I saw ye fall outta that tree ya got out front," the man proceeded to explain, his watery eyes on Roger.

Chelsea burst into laughter, wheeling around to face Roger. "You fell out of a tree!"

Roger didn't answer but retained that constant look of humiliation, his already-flushed cheeks progressing into a deeper shade of red. "Yes siree, he took quite a tumble," the man said with a chuckle, leaning on the rake he had been using when the incident occurred. "Saw him lay there and I 'twas 'bout to go over and help 'im but he got right back up. From where I was I could see he got a nasty cut on his head and he was cryin' a bit, but before I could do anything he ran into the house."

By this time Mark was laughing too, but when the embarrassed pink in Roger's face turned to the firey redness of anger he silenced himself. Chelsea, who had to grow up with the boy and wasn't intimidated by his temper, continued to cackle, pointing and gasping and shouting, "You fell out of a treeeee!"

From that moment on, Mark always knew when Roger was telling a tall tale.