I already dislike your brother, and I can tell you do too by the way you move to the back of the bus without a second thought. I can only imagine what it must feel like to be away from him for the first time in days. You ask if the seat next to me is taken and of course it isn’t. I like your smile as you sit, and you like mine.
He’s still pamphleting up at the driver’s seat, trying to sell my friends on the virtue of seizing the means of production. I’ve known a few hitchhikers in my time (and by known you know what I mean) but your brother is the first one I’ve seen to still be a tweedy stick-armed turtleneck wearing bitch-man even after weeks on the road. Sooner or later reality is supposed to come back to them. Clearly it came back to you sooner. That’s new.
We’re not five minutes on the road, up the interstate into the night once more, before I think you catch the scent of this gang. You realize none of the men you’re seated among share your brother’s interests. Nor his physique; we’re all fit men here, and confident in our capacity for domination. What pains you amuses us, so we still let him talk.