Kill

He'd been fucking around for the first and second period. Just pushing it. I mean, reeeeaaaly pushing the boundaries of "how far is too far."

He found out in a hurry. Like crossing some invisible threshold that lead from the Fun House to a Not So Fun House. He didn't even know he'd been headed that way. Silly motherfucker.

He knew though, when he found himself grabbed by his throat and crotch, his feet swept out from under him, and someone standing Alpha over him. Seething and sweaty. Teeth clenched and a malice deep seated in the heart. "Keep it up asshole. If you walk out of here unassisted it will be a fucking miracle. One more time, and I'll, serious as cancer, end you. Done. One more time. Gamble if you feel like letting the pretty girl blow on the dice. Go on. I fucking dare you. Give me a reason to let It out. You got me? You'd better - or you'll get Me."

After it was all said and done - maybe a shot of bottom shelf liquor, brown and hot, later - he thought about what some might misconstrue as what is commonly referred to as "Anger Issues". He thought about that as he polished off the second double-fingered offering form the bottom of the shelf. 'Fuck that noise, man. Anger is a fucking miracle gift.' Damn straight, Malcolm. Then, he thought of the line from the Breakfast Club. 'You mess with the bull, young man, and you'll get the horns.' Kinda make sense.

He chuckled to himself, gave his back-slappin' teammates a wave, put down two more ounces of the bottom row.....and blew.

Couldn't shake it. Cold sweats, cramps, restless. Dreams in Fellini colors. Cobweb thoughts all intersecting with no apparent rhyme or reason and dust in the corners and only the meal of two day old moth in the middle. What was this very strange sensation. Guilt? No fucking way. Felt more like shame. For what thought. Rehearse, asshole. Get passed the lack of O2 in your blood and think. There was work, then the kids, then pack your gear. Then 90 minutes.....Fuck.

That fella 3.5 hours ago. His face. During what the officials and owners of the facility called "an altercation" - his face is what was causing the cobwebs. Pure, white fear. He'd only seen that in the eyes of the animals on the farm. The ones they ate because they were poor. Or because they wanted to lead a very Waltons/Little House on the Prairie lifestyle. Mother Earth News and all that shit. More that they were poor.

So they ate chickens that had once been incubated in the dining room. They ate the pig that had followed them around the house as a piglet because of an ordering miscalculation. The rabbits that they named after characters from Watership Down - they fried those cute fuckers in cornmeal and ate the shit out of them with pickled beets on the side. They took squirrels from high in the tops of Walnuts and Maples. Ate venison while watching Bambi. Killing had sort of become, not so much second nature, but, had become "old hat". He'd seen it so much. It was a means to an end. Dog goes aggressive and sick? Threatens the balance? Travis gots to take that that shit by the reigns and cap Yeller while he's tied to the walls of the corn crib.

Killing. Fuck. It was so easy because it was necessary. You want to eat? Then you kill. And weather you pull it up from the dirt or a river, or put a bullet in it's brain -- it's all killing. It's ending something, so you don't end.

But that poor, scared, silly bastard from earlier didn't know all that. All he knew was that the roller-coaster had hopped the track and he was in trouble. Scared shitless. Couldn't even shit his pant and jump in and swim. Pure fear. He deserved to be smacked around a little. Maybe a lot. But that, that feeling that he felt in the 45 seconds it took for the officials and the rest of the team to pull his assailant off? No one deserves that. Well, *some* do. But not that poor fucker.

There was only one thing to do he thought while the cobwebs cleared and the cramps let go their iron fist. He had to apologize. He had to find that miserable fool and explain that he didn't mean those things. Well, not all of them. This was the Autumn of fear and rage. Winter brought slumber and clarity. He needed the cool, yellow rebirth of Spring. He went through all available avenues to track down his victim. You never kill because you're angry. Ever. You kill because if you don't you'll die.

And you always pick up your spent shells.

He never did find that guy.

Regret. Shame. Guilt.

Give it a name.