Ryan and Phillip had rehearsed this bit for weeks, anticipating the moment when they'd stun the audience and solidify their rise as performers. They had finally landed a national television spot—a place to wow millions. Everything was going as planned, and Phillip felt the rush of adrenaline as he prepared for the punchline.

  "Ryan, I need you about as well as I need another hole in my head!" Phillip’s voice boomed, commanding the stage.

  Right on cue, he whipped out the revolver, the weight of it familiar in his hand, and pulled the trigger. The deafening crack echoed across the stage as the audience gasped.

  Ryan's body jerked, then crumpled to the ground. The bullet had gone straight between his eyes.

  Phillip froze. His heart dropped into his stomach as he stared at Ryan's lifeless body. The prop gun wasn't supposed to be loaded—what the hell just happened?

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  "Oh shit!" Phillip shouted, panic setting in. "That was a live round!"

  The audience, momentarily stunned, burst into laughter, the kind that fills a room and drowns out the world. They thought it was all part of the show, another dark punchline from the edgy, daring brothers who were pushing the boundaries of entertainment.

  Phillip's hands trembled. "No, no! Please, you don't understand! This isn't a joke! I’ve... I’ve murdered my best friend, my brother!"

  The laughter faltered for a beat, the crowd unsure if they should continue laughing or not. Silence began creeping in, hesitation thick in the air. But then, someone shouted from the back.

  “Fuck yeah! That’s what I’m talking about! Real death! That’s entertainment!”

  That lone voice sparked something in the crowd. Like wolves catching the scent of blood, the audience snapped back into it, their uncertainty melting away. Cheering, clapping, whistling—the frenzy was immediate and overwhelming.

  The audience didn't care if Phillip had just killed Ryan. They were hooked on the spectacle, the thrill of watching something so real, so raw. It was better than any carefully rehearsed routine, better than any fake blood or staged pratfall. The mob wanted more.

  Phillip staggered backward, his knees weak, his mind racing. How could they be cheering for this? How could they take delight in his horror, in the finality of Ryan’s death? He had loved his brother, and now, he had lost him—forever.

  The cheers grew louder, the applause more thunderous. This is what the world wanted: not entertainment, but brutality. Not art, but carnage. He felt the bile rise in his throat, his stomach twisting in disgust.

  God, he hated people.

  And yet, here they were, making him famous for all the wrong reasons.