My brother and I just had an all-out stuffed animal war.
He started it.
I only defended my dignity, which was badly damaged by an ambush in the bathroom whilst flouride-gargling.
I nailed him with a well-placed pink dinosaur. He retaliated with a rather large, overstuffed horse as I dove out of the bathroom, still dutifully gargling, into a pile of quite corporeal, fuzzy childhood memories.
It was all-out war for the next few minutes until I decided that I was in serious danger of ingesting my mouthwash and beat a hasty retreat back to the bathroom. My mouth minty-fresh, I turned to jump back into the fray, but was beaten back by a maelstrom of large, stuffed, Christmas-themed dogs.
Our great war spilled over into the long upstairs hallway as my brother barricaded himself in the master bedroom and I took shelter in the little nook just outside his room. There were several long moments of tension as we peeked at each other from around our respective corners, then all hell broke loose again as we ran at each other like five-year-olds pumped full of sugar, hurling little furry fish and teddy bears and seahorses at each other.
I backed him up to the stairs, and suddenly my stuffed pig could fly as it sailed downstairs.
From below, my mother screeched in protest.
We froze.
And decided on a truce.
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