David Rosinski

“Listen to me,” I snarled. “We are not going to die!” Butters stared up at me, pale, his eyes terrified. “We’re not?” “No. And do you know why?” He shook his head. “Because Thomas is too pretty to die. And because I’m too stubborn to die.” I hauled on the shirt even harder. “And most of all because tomorrow is Oktoberfest, Butters, and polka will never die.” He blinked. “Polka will never die!” I shouted at him. “Say it!” He swallowed. “Polka will never die?” “Again!” “P-p-polka will never die,” he stammered. I shook him a little. “Louder!” “Polka will never die!” he shrieked. “We’re going to make it!” I shouted. “Polka will never die!” Butters screamed. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Thomas muttered. I shot my half brother a warning look, released Butters, and said, “Get ready to open the door.”
― Jim Butcher, Dead Beat