My brother’s name is Michael, and he is awesome in every way. He is taller than a ship’s mast, and his arms are as thick and burly as an ox. His stride is fifty leagues, and he has eighty wives, who have each bore him at least twenty children, all who are named after their father. What about the girls, you say? There are no girls. Michael’s children do not have a fifty/fifty split of genes from their mother and father. Their father’s genes fought and killed all of the mother’s. The US government would be after him for this obvious disregard for US human cloning law, but they fear his face melting guitar solos which he unleashes upon any who would oppose him. He carries a guitar fashioned out of what was previously the world’s largest redwood tree, painted crimson with the blood of enemies, and for his amp he utilizes the resonating frequencies produced by the very Earth itself. Tesla’s “earthquake machine” had nothing on Michael playing a simple blues chord progression, or Lord help us, the solo in “Layla”. Were he to ever improvise and make up his own song, the vibrations would cause the Earth to collapse into a singularity, the event horizon stretching out into infinity. Michael would only be moderately inconvenienced by the fabric of time and space being torn asunder thusly, and would swim to safety and chill in another dimension, until events repeat themselves there.

Also, he’s helping me with some projects.