My brother and I got my little sister to sniff a bottle of ammonia. Somehow we had convinced her how great it smelled, and that she needed to take a really big whiff. She put the bottle under her nose, took a nice long deep breath, paused for a second, then suddenly started screaming “Aaahhh!!! It burns!!! It burns!!!” while my brother and I rolled on the floor laughing. We still laugh about that one. (Even my sister, believe it or not!)
Oh god. Ok.
I used to set my brother up for everything, and he got blamed. I did bad, but I was The Good Son. He’s 2 1/2 years older and to this day I take responsibility for how utterly fucked up he is. ( drugs, etc. )
I once clocked him in the head with a softball bat hard enough to knock him over, and nearly out.
He used to wrestle with me, and once rolled me up in the blanket on my bed. Being badly athsmatic, I completely freaked out and started kicking and lashing in blind panic. Apparently connected quite solidly with his groin. 
For some reason, when the stakes were higher, I never dimed him out and covered for him time and time again because, well, he’s my older brother.
Hmmm. Why does it amuse me a bit to read the situations others lived throgh but embitter me mightily to recount my own?
Cartooniverse
Trying to put this very politely: some of these recollections don’t amuse me at all (seem over the top). YMMV. Perhaps we were sheltered children. 
My adult sister and my mom spent years pretending I did not exist whenever they were together. But hey, who needs a family? Adults are always right.
My little brother and I used to beat the hell out of each other every waking hour of every day. Even though we are in our early 30’s and only see each other once a year at most, it is difficult to be in the same room with him without thinking about both offense and defense.
My parents never got along and had a bad divorce when I was 15. Fifteen was the driving age in Louisiana at the time so I looked for a job to get out of the house and you need a car to get a job and vice versa. I worked hard for 6 months until the manager of the supermarket let me have my pick of shifts. I picked up 30 hours a week or so during school and more during the summer and holidays. Even though it was $3.35 an hour plus tips, that was enough to buy a brand new small pickup truck that I obsessed over.
Now that I had a car bought with no help, I knew that I was going to have to take a stand. I told my mother don’t even bother don’t even ask me for any driving favors due to the situation. She said that I was going to have to take my little brother to school because that was the only practical thing to do. I fought but realized that people would think I was a total ass if I completely refused.
I found my solution. My brother could ride in my little truck if he needed to…in the bed and that is the way it was until he found other rides. It was fun to see people laugh at him when we pulled up in the parking lot and being an ass is good for your popularity in high school.
Ironically, this arrangement helped us out both months later when I was accused of blowing up a construction site. After I was cleared because I was at work, the police accused my brother of taking the truck and blowing things up himself. It was an easily witnessable fact from many that if my brother even sat in the drivers seat he was the one going to be blown up so that was easy to get up of as well.
In a fit of white-hot rage, I pulled out a butcher knife and chased my sister around the house. While my parents slept peacefully upstairs.
I have a sister who’s six years older than me and a brother that’s about a year and a half older than her. We have older siblings, but most of the torture was inflicted between the three of us.
My brother and I were basically out to get my sister. We’d use these walkie-talkies he had to track her through the house, then we’d tie her up and leave her to be found.
My sister, though, wasn’t helpless by any means. She’d tickle me until I fell to the floor, then she shoved me in the front closet and held the door closed.
But this I feel guilty about to this day, and I’m fairly sure I’m the only one who remembers it. My brother and I were swimming in the pool. He thought it was a really fun game to come up under me and pull me under the water. Well, he was holding me under for longer and longer times, or at least it seemed like he was, so the next time he came near me, I threw the only thing I had to hand, the metal head to a watering can.
It was a direct hit on his forehead. I’ve near had such good aim.
-Lil
Heh. When my dad was a very small kid, he and my uncle once played a fun childish game that consisted of taking turns putting a finger on the wood-chopping block while the other tried to see how close he could get with the axe. :dubious: I guess it was some sort of ‘dare’ thing.
Uncle ‘won’ the game eventually when he got the axe within -2 centimetres of dad’s fingertip. At which point they then went inside with the severed finger and the spurting blood and everything to do the traditional. “Err… Muuuuum, what do we do now?” thing. I don’t think granny ever forgave them for that.
What they did to each other in the way of tortury I don’t know, but it can’t have been much worse than their playing…
My sister and I get along very well to this day. Although there were plenty of the usual sibling fights, we’ve always been great friends.
However, my closest friend/writing partner and his brother are a different story. They detest each other with such mightiness that you can feel the tension between them if they walk on either side of you. As such, when we were younger, I adopted him as a kind of “younger torture figure” seeing as I had none of my own.
Well, one year, his parents held a grand old Derby Party for the Kentucky Derby. Gads of people came–they might’ve invited every person for blocks around, but somehow they were still able to serve every single adult there with at least three good helpings of mint juleps. Since no one wants to look after squalling children when they’re sloshed, we, being the oldest children at the party at the ripe old age of 11, had all the young’uns pawned off on us. We were supposed to “entertain” them. At the time, we were more concerned with solving the mystery of the “scratchings” on my buddy’s bathroom wall, which we were convinced was the work of a malicious ghost. We left most of the little kids with my friend’s brother, whom we shall refer to as “Ralph” for the duration of this post. (He was 9 at the time, I should note.)
Trying to drum up a little preteen juju, we filled the sink in the bathroom with water. We then added some of our “elements” to the bowl, to try and connect to the great spirit of–whatever. His element was “Nature,” so he added some leaves from the tree in the backyard. Mine was Ice, so I added a handful of ice cubes from the soda bucket. We began to stir the mixture together, saying mystical-sounding things. We “didn’t want the grownups to know” that there was a ghost in the house, so we kept the door shut.
This convinced Ralph that we’d snuck into the bathroom to kiss.
And we had so conveniently left him with an army to assault us with.
Assembling his aged-4-to-7 group, he went upstairs into the crawl space above their large, airy computer room/his parents’ office. He pulled out the box of old Halloween costumes that his family stored up there. Mostly it was composed of plastic masks, some capes, and some smudged face makeup, but there was one full-sized Stormtrooper costume complete with white 'trooper helmet. This Ralph donned for himself, passing out the rest of the costumes among his troops, ordering them to come after us. We had no idea what was transpiring; we were still trying to get a ghost (whom we decided was named Ruth) to materialize from the bathroom sink. We sighed a little at our failure and decided to go to our “Secret Place,” an ivy-covered alleyway behind his house with a peach tree.
Heading back out to the patio, the Stormtroopers attacked.
We were suddenly assaulted by a hoard of small children, most of which were gussied up in capes and plastic vampire masks. They began to chase us around the backyard; the adults watched us in inebriated amusement, probably privately joking that the races hadn’t started yet. A few sticks were hurled; we sought respite in the shed. We had no idea how to react to this. Although we and Ralph were acknowledged archenemies, we’d never gone on the offensive before. Suddenly we were being attacked; what now?
We waited for Ralph to move off, waiting for the coast to clear. When we saw that he’d gone inside in boredom, we snuck out, heading off for out Secret Place. Creeping around to the side gate, we noticed we were being followed. Spies from the Ralphian Army? No, one of my friend’s cousins. A defector. She hadn’t gotten a cool costume. Besides, she said, she thought we were more fun to hang out with. We noticed she was trailing a small gaggle herself. We accepted them as new recruits and headed towards our headquarters to make our battle plans.
We weren’t exactly great military tacticians, but together we formulated an idea. What we needed to do was claim the treehouse in their backyard. From up there, we hoped the Ralphians wouldn’t bother us. But we needed to be able to defend our turf. Luckily, being off the ground, we hoped we had an advantage–we’d hopefully be out of their throwing range–but then his cousin pointed out the notable lack of ammo being up in a tree would give us. There on the ground, they had rocks and sticks. What would we have?
Looking at the backyard in my mind, I had a sudden brainstorm. “Lemons,” I said.
There was a large lemon tree in their backyard, from which no one ever picked. It just happened to be burgeoning with lemons–and it was in a sideyard off from the main party, so no one would see us there. We charged two of our operatives, the two cutest and most innocent-looking ones, with the task of finding buckets and footstools. We dismissed our army and told them to regroup in the side yard–but covertly.
Well, the two little kids brought us several buckets and a few good stepping stools, and we got up into the branches of that tree and picked lemons. Every single lemon we could find. If they were too high up, we’d help someone up on our hands or backs to get them. We piled our buckets high with citrus. The race was beginning, and the adults were all clustered around the TV sets placed throughout the house and backyard, so we were free to move about as we pleased. We charged a few of our soldiers with the task of transporting lemons up to the treehouse. Luckily, someone had already rigged the treehouse with a fancy pully system, so with one operative up in the treehouse at all times, manning the pullies, we managed to amass a massive lemon pile. Our arsenal grew. Eventually, we exhausted our supply of fruit and moved into our stronghold. Suddenly our defensive strategy had turned into a pre-emptive strike; we sent one of our team members to go bait Ralph and his pals so we could go to war.
The Stormtrooper approached our treehouse with his hoards. The first lemon flew.
Plup and rinds filled the air; we chucked fruit toward the ground with explosive, splattering results. Ralph and his crew scooped up handfuls of pulp, sometimes hiding rocks inside them, and chucked them back. A powerful citrus waft hovered over the treehouse as fruit splattered everywhere. Sticky juice covered our clothing and bits of string and peel got into our hair. We cried battle cries as he hurled our bombs. Soon Ralph and his crew began to retaliate with more rocks than fruit. We had to duck to avoid getting beaned in the noggin. Ralph was more aggresive than we thought he’d be. One of our young charges got swiped by a pebble and started to cry.
The adults cheered as the races finished, and suddenly, some of them began to notice the powerful fresh lemon scent and the sounds of small children crying. Enter Mr. Friend’s Dad.
WHAT the heck are you kidsDOING!?!?!
He made us sign a peace treaty. To this day, we’ll never know who would’ve won the Battle of Lemons.
When I was about 5, my older brothers dug an underground fort in the back yard. When it was about 4 or 5 feet deep they asked my if I want to see inside. They lowered me into the pit, which was over my head with vertical sides. Then they went in the house for lunch.
Another time, my oldest brother got a chemistry set for Christmas, and melted some sulphur in a little metal spoon over an alcohol lamp. He asked me if I wanted to smell something stinky, so I took a big whiff and nearly choked on the sulphur dioxide fumes. I remember the burning in my chest and gasping for air as he giggled with delight.
We are very close today, and I never miss a chance to make him feel guilty.
The younger of my brothers is 10 1/2 years older than me(the other is 15 years older and was out of the house before I was out of diapers, so he never really had the opportunity to torture me). Anyway, you know those plastic milkcrates? Did you know they are just the right size for making cages for toddlers? He’d stand me up inside one, and put another upside down over my head, and then take one of those cable-like chains for locking up a bike to a bikerack, and weave it through the holes in the crates to lock me in. Boys. :rolleyes:
Not torture, but how about unintended head injury?
My brother and I were having a pillow fight, and I nailed him when his forehead was directly above the corner of an end table. He screamed like holy hell, rolled over, and there was a nickel-sized, gaping red hole just above his eyebrow.
My mom was a medical lab tech, and the office was just minutes away. I’m lucky I didn’t put an eye out or worse…he came away with only 7 stitches. No more pillow fights after that.
My Bro and I, we tortured each other a lot…
Many stories, most of them involving pain, injury and or misplaced parential discipline…
Fast forward to modern times…
MY Bro sent his niece (my daughter) a Fireman’s hat, with a flashing light and siren… It was LOUD… Did I mention it was loud…
It was loud.
He was foolish enough to reproduce three times, and next christmas, Uncle FML sent his kids 1) Some Kazoos, 2) Some New Years Party Style noise makers, 3) Whoopie cushions (one each), 4) Toy snare drums…
Torture via children of siblings…
the game continues…
FML
Bwhahahaha…Ah…that’s so sweet.
I wish I had milk crates at my disposal like that.
Like I said…Boys :rolleyes:
My other brother called me heartless once and I, being a very literal minded child, sincerely thought he meant I had no heart. I cried and cried. Is THAT sweet??
Or did you mean sweet like, “Dude! SWEET!”
Heh…nah, it’s pretty sweet.
Please don’t throw rocks at me.
I’m four years older than my younger brother. My finest moment of sibling torture involved a friend’s sleepover. He’d brought over a huge duffel bag. We talked little brother into the bag and zipped it shut. Then we carried him all over the house, to disorient him. We told him we were at the top of the stairs and began to swing him back and forth and count down, three, two one, and lofted him up into the air, thashing, kicking and screaming…
onto his bed.
My husband doesn’t care much for his younger sister after decades of her making his life miserable; she had kids, but we aren’t planning on having any, so he has been buying her kids the loudest toys he can find for the past seven years. Revenge - patiently awaited, long and sweet.
Cyn buried her younger brother in the backyard.
Just letting y’all know.
Figure four leg-locks. Damn you, Jack & Jerry Briscoe 
Holding me down & dangling a loogy over my face.
Love you, Steve
VCNJ~