A gift for  0rcawolf written a while back as a thank-you for a picture he drew of George. Here's his gator guy Vic and his twin brother Sam, doing what brothers do best: annoy the hell out of each other. Sam's now my character so who knows, you might see some art of him sometime.

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The ceiling fan turned lazily round and round, the cord dancing through the air in little arcs. Dishes from the morning laid stacked high in the sink, with food stains firmly baked on to the saucepans. Bean sauce had dried onto the countertops and the smell of stale meat juices wafted from out of the oven. A single, bloated fly buzzed lazily on the table, too full from leftovers to be arsed to escape out the open window.

Standing in the doorway, a powerfully-built gator surveyed the mess with an expression of mild disapproval on his face. Broader than the doorframe he leaned on, a tuna-shaped metal medallion dangled from out of his tattered shirt. He dropped his sports bag and lowered his sunglasses, taking in the devastation.

“Sam, why didn’t you do the cleaning, huh?” he called out, his eyes not leaving the scene. 'I smell cheese but I bet there’s no cheese,' he thought with disgust.

The sound of weights clanking into place drifted from down the hall, followed by heavy footsteps. “Lay off, Vic. I been working all day,” came the reply while the footsteps drew closer.

Vic smiled. “Or what? Gonna tell Mum again?” he replied. He loved winding his brother up. He turned around and... WHAPP!...got a sweaty towel in the face. Spluttering, he pulled the towel off. “Euch. Tastes like chicken.”

“If you don’t like chicken, you can kiss mah beefy ass,” taunted Sam.

Sam was the older of the twins, by a whole 30 seconds. But they were still very similar-looking, even if their personalities couldn’t have differed more. Both shared the same grayish green scale colourings and well-built physiques. The biggest difference between them was protruding over Sam’s shorts.

Vic peeled the towel off and threw it back at Sam’s gut. Over the years, while they had both dove into the bodybuilding lifestyle, Sam had developed a large, firm muscle-gut. Rather than be annoyed about it, Sam loved his gut. More than once Vic had caught him rubbing and patting it. Their friends joked that Sam was the fun-house mirror version of his brother.

“I thought you said that whoever gets to use the home gym also has to clean up the place? Or was that just an excuse for ya to raid the fridge?” Vic grunted, poking the protruding gut. 'Gawd, he’s going to burst out of those pants in public someday. Note to self: carry a camera for that moment.' A smirk quirked at the corner of his mouth.

Sam swatted his brother’s hand away. “For your information, I was working the weights all day. Besides it’s your turn. We swapped,” he explained while chugging down a drink from the fridge, his thick scaled tail threatening to tip the dishes’ balancing act over with every move.

Crossing his arms, Vic propped himself against the doorframe again. “Since when?” 'And stop blocking the fridge, you lummox.'

“Since you asked yesterday.”

“No I didn’t”

“Yes you did”

“No, you did those dishes of your own free will, making my turn redundant. Hence it’s your turn now.”

Sam sighed, leaning forward on the countertop, his broad back sagging in mock defeat. Then he straightened up. “You always do this, trying to weasel out of everything. How about some responsibility for a change. What will it take to convince you it’s your turn?”

Vic paused. Silence. “Wrestle ya for it?” he grinned toothily.

Shuddering, Sam shook his head back and forth. “Oh no, not again. Every time I say no tickling and every time you jab a finger in my armpits and have me giggling. Flip a coin?”

With a shrug Vic dismissed his brother's suggestion. “I don’t trust coins. Too two-faced.” 'Ooh, I like that one, I’m keeping that for impressing the ladies with my razor-sharp repartee.'

They stared at each other from across the room, the silence lengthening with not a word exchanged. They both knew the only way to settle this argument.

“Flex off?” said Vic.

“No, god, n...just follow my lead” Sam sighed.

So easy to wind up.

Sam swept the old newspapers off the kitchen table, letting them fall to the floor. “There, more work for the loser.”

Both gators took seats on opposite sides of the table, before propping an elbow each on the surface.

“Aren’t we a little old for arm-wrestling, Sam?”

“Aren’t we a little old for Star Trek dolls, Vic?”

“Those are collectable action figures!” Vic bellowed, slamming his other hand on the table. 'Oh it’s on now. No one makes fun of Sulu and survives!.'

They clasped their scaled hands together, the green scales shifting when muscles tightened beneath them. Sam stared at him. “Go on three, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” his brother grumbled in acknowledgement.

Sam shifted his weight, getting a firm grip on Vic. “One...”

Vic’s tongue rolled over his lips in anticipation.

“...two...”

He opened his mouth.

“...thr-

“ILICKEDYOURBUTTER!” Vic shot out.

“-eeeeeYOUWHAT?!”

WHAMMMMMM! Taking the advantage, Vic slammed his brother’s arm down hard on the table, the sound of cracking accompanying it. Immediately, he stood straight up out of his chair, arms raised straight up, index fingers pointed at the ceiling.

“WINNAH!” he shouted triumphantly, while Sam lunged in vain at his twin’s neck, his gut catching the tabletop.

“You disgusting little twerp!” Sam roared, rising out of his seat.

“Uh-uh” tutted Vic, back-stepping away a bit. “ Deal’s a deal. Dishes. Now. Scoot.” 'And the crowd goes wild. “Aw, yeah.” ”V-I-C. V-I-C” “Uhura here. Join me on the holo-deck, stud.”'

Sam glowered. “If we weren’t related and I could afford the rent on my own, I’d kick your ass out right now.”

“Yeah right,” Vic snorted. 'With that beach-ball for a belly, I’d like to see your legs reach that high.’ He backed out of the room, saluting his brother before he left, beaming broadly. 'Ah, brotherly love/hate. Nothing like it to cheer you up.'