Ryan Karamazov was Jarrett’s younger cousin. Ryan had seen one fewer new year than either Jarrett or myself (the two of us having each seen twenty two) and was midway through his final year at university. Where his elder cousin was an Apollo, Ryan was more of a Bacchus, ever seeking mirth and pleasure in whatever form of ale or spirit they might manifest. And yet, despite the debaucheristic portrait which this story shall likely paint of Ryan, I aver that he was of a stout character; a young man of diverse senses and complex dimensions. The third in my pantheonic crew was Stevie Karamazov, who also hailed from the ranks of my old guard. In our days at Catonis Academy, Stevie and I coharvested healthy strands of rebellion. Together we pursued many a pair of worthy goddesses and broke many a rule worthy of the breaking. Some time after we split ways to attend our separate universities, Stevie let his hair grow long until its ends achieved his shoulders. It was only in emulation of his that my hair joined the rebellion and eventually grew to the same achievement. Though Stevie wore a comely visage with often smiling features, he bore the fire of Vulcan’s very forge within his breast. For him, philosophy as much as life was a full-contact sport. And thus, with rebellion about his mind and volcanic uprisings in his heart, Stevie Karamazov passed into the cobbled streets of Reykjavík, prepared to administer existential reconstruction on the mindless Madame-Hohlakovs of the civilized world. Johnny Karamazov, the younger brother (bloodwise) of Stevie, was his elder brother’s likeness but with a shorter crop of hair. Perhaps my most cherished image from those past three days of debauchery was one of Johnny lying leisurely in bed at two
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