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worn-leather boots and army fatigues. Colt is feral and independent, the sort of monster that every kid secretly wants to be; whose terrible legacy precedes him.
    He’s also known to kill neighborhood dogs.
    When he had the knife up to my brother’s throat one year ago, that’s all I could think: there’s no way to look cool with a knife at your throat. Even Greg Mackie, the biggest nerd at school, looked cool compared to my brother’s whimpering.
    We were walking home from school. Greg was in the middle of explaining the connection between George Romero’s Dawn of the Dead and Lucio Fulci’s Zombie . He definitely knew his movie trivia, and sometimes we let him help us with our movie, but only as technical help. Greg didn’t belong in front of the lens.
    We should’ve known from the clip clopping of the boots behind us.
    “Hey,” Colt said.
    Greg wouldn’t shut up. It was still zombie-this and zombie-that, even after I elbowed him in the stomach to shut up.
    “Hey!”
    Greg heard him this time, but some mechanical malfunction in his brain kept him from shutting up. Colt threw a rock, and Greg turned around just in time to have it land square across his face. The missile took his glasses off and knocked him to the ground. Greg let out a squeal and tumbled over in some clumsy, slow motion collapse.
    “Listen when I talk!” Colt yelled. My brother and I stood firm and faced the dirty bully. “What are you fucks doing?”
    Sputtering on the ground, Greg mentioned our movie.
    “A movie?” The corners of his mouth quivered into an almost-smile. “Can I be in your movie?” It wasn’t a question, really.
    “You can’t,” Brian said. Both Colt and I were surprised by his response. “There isn’t a part for you.” Brian’s face was taut but he shuffled his feet. He was scared.
    “But I’m a really good actor.” He grabbed my brother by the shirt. None of us were expecting it. He twirled Brian up his arm like a spider reeling in prey. Colt pulled a kitchen knife from his pocket and placed it on Brian’s neck. The serrated blade hadn’t been cleaned since his last meal, and bits of grease and grizzle clung to it.
    “Don’t move or your friend here gets it.” His face lit up. His voice was stagey—a poor man’s Humphrey Bogart. “See?” Colt looked sideways at me, and the sun struck his face so that it made his eyes match the yellow of his teeth.
    Greg Mackie found his glasses and ran away. I froze.
    “Please Colt.” I stammered. Colt pushed harder and the skin gave, letting out a thin streak of blood. Brian yelped.
    “Please what?”
    “Let my brother go.”
    A number of thoughts seemed to pass behind Colt’s eyes. I was pretty sure that half of them were murderous. I recalled the date to make sure it would be correct on the tombstone.
    Colt pushed my brother away and wiped the blood off the knife with his fingers, which he flung onto the grass like runny snot. He took a bow. Then, his face softened. Whatever theatrical spirit that possessed him was exorcised. He was dim again.
    “Fuck you and your movie. I didn’t want to be in it anyway.” The monster turned and walked away.
    Brian collapsed to the ground, holding his neck. I ran over to him. Despite the amount of blood, it was a shallow cut—one that we could easily blame on a nasty tree branch. I pulled my brother up to his feet.
    “Are you all right?”
    “What the fuck was that?” Brian coughed.
    “I think we should go home. Let’s go home.”
    He pushed me away. “And where were you? Why didn’t you stop him?”
    I had nothing to say. Just stood there. Brian felt his neck—the cut had already stopped bleeding and he was only smearing the residual blood. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “Brothers watch out for each other.”
    We walked home the long way, ducking through broken fences and bushes. We didn’t say a word the entire time. A week later, my brother disappeared.

[rec 00.10.14]
     
     
    The footage is shaky and