The Old 63.

Around 1985, my brother had a blue container. Nothing special, just a kid's lunchbox that opened via the unlocking of two separate hatches to reveal an empty space. What you decided to put in that space, however, was what mattered.

I recall putting random things in there, the kind of things kids put in boxes, like moss, twigs, dead cats, what have you.

But my brother, he made that box special. Special enough for me to remember it vividly enough to mention it at his 21st in a speech I made before he fell over drunk.

The Old 63 is in here, OK OK good.

Those words will stay with me until I die. It's a sentence that, apart from being grammatically retarded, means nothing unless you know what he meant. The Old 63 was simply a pop-gun he'd inherited, likely from me, with a red tip so you knew where the dangerous end was.

Nothing special, I admit. But it's a memory that I treasure as I get older; as those memories fade.

He loved that gun. Loved it enough to designate it a special box where it would reside and slumber until he needed to retrieve it to fight some fantastical enemy that had appeared in our backyard. A four-headed monster perhaps, threatening our dog, or simply perhaps the larger-than-life image of his sadistic elder brother.

Whatever it might be, the solution to his problems lay in that box, warded with special words that granted it's wielder with infinite power. He was fucking invincible with that gun.

This was backed-up with the reinforcement of the term 'OK'. Once wasn't enough, no. 'OK OK good'. It meant that the gun was in the box, OK, but it wasn't just OK, it was fucking OK. Like, John Wayne could wield this handgun and shoot a cat and the cat would explode and the pieces would then ignite and turn into smaller cats toting sticks of dynamite hell-bent on blowing up orphans or some shit. I don't know, but the gun had that level of mystique and power.