Every worst day is a Thursday.

The day my cat got run over by a scooter was a Thursday. The day I found out I'm allergic to bees (like super fucking allergic, like if one stings me, you'd better have the coffin and incense ready) was a Thursday.

And even the day that started with the fat face of a policeman at our classroom door was a Thursday.

"We need Drake Fulmer."

My pimply classmates stared at me with their apathetic little eyes.

"No Fulmer here. You've got the wrong class." My remark earned me a scowl from the teacher and a blank look from the officer.

That math bitch wasn't on my side: "Fulmer is the guy who always has something to say. What exactly is going on?"

"We need to take him to the police station."

The whispers in the class were drowned only by the congratulatory whistles.

Oh come on. What could I possibly have done now?

I mentally reviewed all my recent misdeeds.

Was it for the graffiti I did on the sidewall of the school? Or did some asshole spill that I have weed? Fucking hell, if I catch him...

No. Maybe the guy from the liquor store noticed I wasn't born in '56?

With each step closer to the policeman, a new possible explanation presented itself. I abandoned the classroom full of idiotic classmates and a despicable teacher.

The guy put a hand on my shoulder (which... like... gross. Who are you? Don't touch me) and led the way to the stairs, and then down to the lobby where another officer was waiting for our arrival: a skinny guy, with dandruff-filled hair, for goodness sake... doesn't he know they make special shampoos for that? For Christ's sake.

They didn't handcuff me, which had to be a good sign, but every time I asked what the fuck was going on, the only one to answer me was the chubby one who made sure to remind me to watch my language in front of a law enforcement officer.

In the schoolyard, the police car with silent sirens had attracted that group of thugs who always skip the first period as a personal habit.

Upon our arrival, the crowd dispersed, but without losing sight of the poor victim of the situation, namely the kid squeezed between two cops.

The skinny guy opened the car door and gestured for me to get in.

This must have been how the proud prehistoric wolf felt approaching the man's fire. It seems like a sensible and reasonable pact and then BAM, five thousand years later you're a fucking horror of a Shih Tzu, even more demented that a fucking rat.

"Okay. I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what the fuck is going on. No, you can't treat me like this! I have rights! You have no idea who I am. My father has a string of thirty lawyers, all of whom have sold their souls to Satan. You don't want to mess with me."

The two looked at each other and I immediately knew they weren't buying it. My father was a failed guitarist who owned little more than the holey socks he wore.

The skinny one sighed and looked at me in a way that was not at all appropriate for a policeman about to arrest a young delinquent. It seemed like pity.

"This is what it's about. We need to take you to the police station to talk about your father. Don't worry, you're not in trouble. But we'll talk better once we get there."

So I let myself be fooled. I spent the journey thinking about what stupid shit my dimwit father could have done. It wasn't so strange that he was in trouble with the police, that man had the common sense of a horny praying mantis, but why was I involved? Why were they calling me?

I let myself be led into the police station and then into a room they made sure to inform me was NOT an interrogation room at all.

"So? What did that asshole do?"

The two men who entered the room were not the same ones who had accompanied me there.

I quickly read the name tags attached to their uniforms.

"FBI?!" What the fuck... "Listen. You've got the wrong guy. Whatever you think my father did, you're wrong. He's not smart enough to commit an FBI-level crime. The only two neurons he didn't smoke away with weed can't even figure out how to connect the DVD player to the TV."

The two men sat in the two metal chairs in front of the table. The one on the right placed a folder under my nose and rested a hand on it to keep it closed.

"I'm really sorry to contradict you, we've been on your father's trail for sixteen years. What I'm about to tell you won't be easy to accept, but please listen to me until the end. Your name isn't Drake and you weren't born in Sacramento. Your name is Thomas, you were born in Vancouver. When you were one year old, your father kidnapped you from your crib and brought you across the Canadian border into the United States."

I blinked a couple of times, yet every time I reopened my eyelids I found the same absurd scene.

I let myself fall back into the chair. "Pfff, come on. You've got the wrong guy. My father didn't even want me, let alone bother to kidnap me. He got stuck with me, banged a stripper, and then she dumped the kid on his doorstep."

I pointed at myself with my thumbs to emphasize the point for those two gorillas. "Here I am, I'm the stripper's kid. No kidnapping here. Just really bad taste."

The agent sighed in defeat. He removed his hand from the folder and opened it, pulling out a photo of a chubby-cheeked kid framed by the words HAVE YOU SEEN ME?

“That’s you.”

"That's a human tadpole. It doesn't look anything like me."

"And this..." The man discarded the first photo and pulled out the second one. "... is your brother."

In the second picture was the same tadpole as before, but dressed differently.

"Your father couldn't get both of you, so he left your brother Jeremy behind. He and your mother received the news a little while ago and they've already left Vancouver to come here. If you really want concrete proof, we could do a DNA test, but I'm sure when you see your brother you'll understand why it's unnecessary."

I found myself swallowing as I stared at those stupid pictures.

"Where's my father?"

"At the moment, he's in custody."

"I need to talk to him."

The agent stood up and the other followed suit. "For now, that's not possible. Your family will arrive tomorrow, for tonight you'll be accommodated in a designated facility, and then you'll be able to go home."

The two men left the room, the door closed slowly after their departure. I remained staring at it motionless.

Dad...

What the fuck did you do?