Something completely different, part 4

The fourth installment of a story of fiction. If you missed the first three and are happy about that, don't do anything. But if you would like to read the first three parts, or any combination thereof, look back a few blogs for parts one, two and three. The list of blogs is way down at the bottom of this page, just roll on down and click on what you want to read. Or you can just look for them as you scroll down. The name of the story is not "Something completely different,". Not sure what to call it yet.

The traffic became lighter and the driving was easier. There was no point in searching for different stations on the radio. “It’s Christmas Eve,” he thought. “All Christmas music, all the time.”
“You better watch out, you better not cry . . .” Michael found himself singing along. “You better not pout . . .” “ A cruel conspiracy by parents to control their children,”, Michael thought, laughing to himself. He was the youngest of three children, His brother, his sister, then Michael. David was four years older than he, his sister two years older.
“En guard,” and the fight would begin. No moment of life is wasted as a child. “Take up your sword and fight like a man.”
At the end of an evening of wrapping presents just so that mother could re-wrap them according to her specifications, an emotional outlet was needed. For what seemed like hours mother gave instructions on how to cut paper straight, line up the patterns, tuck the ends of the packages just so, hide the tape, don’t throw the scissors, and not waste ribbons. Fortunately, the means of release were found as a natural result of the cause of the stress. At the end of every roll of wrapping paper was the remedy, a cardboard tube about three feet long, the exact specifications of a musketeer’s sword.
Sister’s bedroom was the wrapping headquarters, her twin beds becoming wrapping tables for most of the days before Christmas. The beds were also the perfect staging area for swashbuckling sword fights. Usually Michael and his sister would team up against their older brother. Back and forth, thrusting, parrying, from floor to bed to floor again. Theatrical at first, almost a choreographed dance, but usually devolving into flailing the daylights out of each other immediately before knocking over a lamp. This could mean real trouble. Forgotten in the excitement of the moment was the admonition to watch out, a real dilemma during the days before Christmas. Knowing your behavior was putting your “good list” status in jeopardy was easily enough to make one cry, or pout. But that was not allowed at such a time as this. The evening usually ended in quiet, hoping that mother did not notice the damage, or the repressed pouting. So, the parents’ and Santa’s conspiracy was somewhat effective.