Let's face it.
My little brother is insane. And a moron. Only that particular combination would get him into the situations he gets into. Dragging me along, to boot.
Like now.
"HARRY!" I shouted, feeling completely justified in doing so, "Drive faster before you get us killed!"
"It won't go any faster!" he shouted back, a little edge of worry in his voice.
Oh, right, and his insanity also extended to owning the worst (and most unstylish) car on the planet. There was that.
I muttered to myself, looking back at the poisonous spider-creatures chasing us.
Maybe it was genetic.