Isocolon (i-so-co’-lon): A series of similarly structured elements having the same length. A kind of parallelism.
I had made a mistake. I had screwed up bad. I was going to die. I had betrayed my psychotic brother. If he got wind of it he’d make me into cube steak and cook me medium rare on his new gas grill. He was like that.
I was scared of him and that’s why I got involved in what he called “our endeavors.” Basically, our endeavors spanned the sum of crime.
Our first crime was receiving “tribute” from the town’s paperboys. It was a per-paper tax we charged them. The more customers they had, the more they paid. We had an enforcer named Moby who helped us collect. Moby carried a length of lead pipe and waved it, making growling sounds. This usually did the trick, but every once in a while there was a wise-ass who refused to pay. Moby would break their knuckles on their paper-throwing hand, putting them out of business. We didn’t mind because the injury put out the word: we didn’t take any shit.
The whole time I’ve been involved in crime with my brother, I wanted to quit. I couldn’t sleep or eat. I had nightmares. I had colds all time and I started stuttering. but I couldn’t quit. I was afraid to.
Over the years we’ve worked our way up to arson. Mainly, we torch small business and take a cut of the insurance payout. It provides a good income. I’m putting my daughter through Harvard with no financial aid, or loans. I’m paying full-tariff and can easily afford it. My wife gets whatever she wants. Last week I bought her a beach house down at the shore for $2,500,000 and a Gucci hat for $12,000. I’m beyond plush.
Then it happened: We got a “contract” to torch a residence. The Tindles live on my block: a happily married husband and wife, a daughter nicknamed Bitsy, and a cat named Clapper. They are really nice people. In fact we exchange Christmas gifts every year. Last year, Chris and his wife gave me a cashmere bathrobe and I gave them seasons tickets to the Yankees, with limo transportation to and from Yankee Stadium.
Why would anybody want to burn their house down with them in it? My brother told me that Chris had “Stepped on somebody’s toes.” I asked for more detail and he wouldn’t give it. So, I got really mad and turned my brother in. I betrayed him to the police. They found him parked outside the Tindles with a trunk load of gasoline, rags, and a pocketful of Bic lighters.
He was arrested and convicted of arson and hundreds of other crimes I disclosed for immunity from prosecution. He is serving 125 years in Northern State Prison. My family abandoned me when I squealed on my brother and the money ran out. Now, I operate the produce stand at Hannaford’s.
Some days, I go bananas. Ha! Ha!
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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