To Rayme, Callie, and my dad

Twist had a pair of twin sisters - younger than her by two years - named Pepsy and Pizza. Mischievous and playful-natured, they were completely identical - meaning they had the same gray eyes, chestnut hair, cute button nose, black floor-length dresses, etc. The only way their family could tell them apart was through their slight clothing and personality differences: Pepsy, the first twin, was a “fake-sweet” troublemaker who wore a blue bonnet on her head. On the other hand, Pizza, the second twin, was (for lack of a better description) a whiny, shy, insecure hothead who had a sweat tattoo of an eighth note on her cheek and carried a pink reindeer puppet with her for security reasons.

Pepsy and Pizza were inseparable BFFs about 70% of the time, playing and wreaking mayhem together like a pair of humanized gremlins. For the other 30%, however, they fought over the sort of stuff that would only make sense to six-year-olds, like --

“It’s MY crayon!” Pizza yelled as she and Pepsy had a round of tug-of-war over a certain blue coloring utensil.

“Nuh-uh, it’s MINE!” her twin countered, tugging the crayon her way.

A few tugs and juvenile insults later, the crayon broke and the twins’ parents had to intervene.

“Lemme at ‘er, lemme at ‘er!” Pepsy yelled, squiggling and squirming in her mother’s grip.

Pizza blew a raspberry at her twin from her place in her father’s arms, her reindeer toy sticking out of her dress pocket like a gun.

Frustrated, the girls’ parents gave them each their own separate box of crayons and ordered a separation for the rest of the afternoon. Pizza would remain in the TV room, while Pepsy would be moved to their shared bedroom upstairs.

Before the prank-happy twin was ushered up the stairs by her father, she managed to spitefully kick her sister in the tushie, eliciting a yelp of pain from both first-graders. (According to their family doctor, this was a twin thing; they could feel each other’s pain).

“Humph,” Pizza scoffed as she walked back to where her coloring book was in front of the sofa. “Pepsy can be a real meanie sometimes, right, Prancer -- Prancer?”

Pizza dug in her pocket and gasped. Prancer, her beloved toy reindeer, was missing! The little girl began to hyperventilate as she searched up, down, and all-around for her favorite toy - in between the couch cushions, under the coffee table, in the remote basket - but Prancer was nowhere to be found.

Crushed, Pizza sat down in front of the coffee table, hugged her knees, and began to cry.  Where, oh where, could her beloved Prancer be? It wasn’t time for Mommy to wash him, and even then it wasn’t like Mommy to suddenly throw him in the washer unannounced. Furthermore, the little girl could’ve sworn she had Prancer with her when she and Pepsy were --

Pepsy.

A sudden bolt of realization hit Pizza like a brick to the head, followed by anger so hot it burned her face like a hot coal.

“Pepsy,” the little girl thought again, standing up and trembling with rage only her big sister could top. “I will destroy you!”

Meanwhile, in the upstairs storage room…

Pepsy had indeed procured her twin sister’s puppet and was in the middle of hiding him in an old Tupperware box when Pizza suddenly kicked their door down with a BANG!.

“PEPSY!” the blue-hatted girl growled angrily. “GIVE ME BACK MY PRANCER!”

Pizza jumped on top of her twin and wrestled her beloved reindeer out of Pepsy's grip.

“I oughta tell Daddy on you, missy!” Pizza huffed, wagging her finger incriminatingly at Pepsy.

The prank-happy twin didn’t answer, she just giggled like she was the world’s greatest comedian. This pissed off Pizza so much she reached behind herself and spanked her bum as hard as she could.

Both twins squealed in pain, but Pepsy’s was louder.

“Pizza, how could you!?” the prank-happy girl whimpered as she got up and rubbed her aching tushie. “You know I have Red-Bum-Bumitis!”

(Red-Bum-Bumitis was a condition Pepsy had been diagnosed with back in preschool, which gave her itchy red marks on her rear-end that stung when hit).

“Hmph!” Pizza folded her arms in full “pout” mode. “Serves you right for being a pug-faced poop-eater!”

Now of all the things you should never call Pepsy Tequila Holloway, “poop-eater” was in the top three (“I swear, I totally thought it was chocolate!”). As soon as those two cursed words left her twin sister’s lips, the prank-happy girl’s blood began to boil and churn with anger, causing steam to blow out her ears like a screaming teakettle.

Sensing she’d done goofed up, Pizza slowly backed towards the door, hoping to escape, but Pepsy jumped on top of her and began yet another dust brawl.

The screaming and punching soon attracted the attention of Mrs. Holloway and the twins’ older sister Twist, who came in to intervene. (Their dad, Frank, was busy watering the plants out back at the time).

“I’m guessing either you girls are having a bad day, or your panties are too tight,” remarked the eldest Holloway girl as she held Pizza’s hands behind her back to prevent her from beating the living crap out of her twin.

“We think Daddy got us the wrong size!” the twins wailed as they began doing the Wedgie Dance in their family members’ arms.

So after a quick lecture, Mrs. Holloway ordered her twin daughters to “hug and make up”, but the mere idea of this seemed to revolt them.

“Eww, gross!” Pizza gagged, making Prancer shake his head so he’d agree with her. “I’d rather kiss a booger-monster than hug a big meanie-pants like her!”

“Yeah, sorry, Mommy,” Pepsy said, putting her hands up as though she were surrendering. "I don't hug mean, little piggies.”

And the two little girls walked away, Pepsy headed for their bedroom and Pizza for the TV room downstairs.

Already used to this sort of thing, Twist and her mother counted down on their fingers: “Five, four, three, two, one...”

Right on cue, the twins zipped back to the second-floor landing, bawling their eyes out and hugging each other.

“I-I’m sorry, Pep!” Pizza wailed. “You’re not a meanie-pants, you’re the bestest twin a girl could ever ask for!”

Pepsy choked out between sobs: “You’re my best friend, Pizza!”

“Awww!” Mrs. Holloway always found it cute whenever her younger daughters resolved their conflicts, even if it was a very common occurrence.

Twist stifled a giggle.

“What’s so funny, love?” Mrs. Holloway asked in her weird Irish accent.

“P-Pepsy called Pizza a piggy,” Twist answered, still struggling to hold back her incoming giggle fit. “B-But you and Daddy said they’re 'idenn-ickle' twins, so wouldn’t that make them both piggies?”

“WHAAAT?”

Pepsy’s face flushed at this realization, while Pizza’s morphed into a combination of shock and glee.

“We have the same face!?” the puppet-toting girl said, turning to her twin with mischievous glee in her gray eyes. “We’ve had the same face this whole time, and yet you still wouldn’t play dress-up with me!?”

As Pizza continued to slowly but surely approach her, Pepsy tried to sputter out a reply: “W-Well, you see, it - I - um, er -- DON’T PRETTY ME!”

She screamed like the little girl she was as her twin chased her downstairs.

Twist fell to the floor laughing as her mother ran after the twins, yelling at them to get their panties out of a bunch already. (Pepsy & Pizza: “We told you, Mommy! Daddy got us the wrong size!”)

~The end!~