That Subtle White Noise, part two

I could never figure out if I wanted to kill or forgive the men who had tried to kill me. I think my innate dispassion confused me, but that didn't keep me from buying an old baseball bat, just in case they tried it again. I wrote the words "Ass's Jawbone" on it with a sharpie pen, in hopes that if it ever saw battle it would reap numbers similar to that of old Samson himself. Initially I planned on wrapping it in barbed wire and spray painting it gold. I don't know why I wanted to paint it, perhaps the image of gold paint rubbing off in the dark red of my enemy's wounds somehow satisfied my sense of vengeance- like a signature of sorts. Later I heard that some kid had gotten arrested for having a bat wrapped in barbed wire, so decided against it. I suppose I still could’ve painted it gold, though.

I am not of the school of thought that says there is a line that is crossed or a hair that breaks a camel's back or something that just snaps inside of you when you decide to do something awful. I think it is simpler than that, but less easy to explain. We tend to talk in terms of anger and frustration becoming bottled up and then blowing, but we never ask why we attribute the metaphor of a bottle of soda to actual psychological processes. Personally, I think we are all always much closer to crossing that line than we think. Some folks are insane, others have had something de-programed somewhere along the line, some just slip over from time to time or once in their life, and still others are simply brave enough to try it. For me- what with the honking and the stares and the frowns and the slow scritch of my passenger's walker across the floor of the bus- when the fellow behind me exited his truck and headed my way, what happened next seemed inevitable- almost natural.

I saw him hop out of his truck right after the security guard lady had stabbed her finger in the air, signaling my urgent need to move on. Something about that jerking motion in the air: three times: go, go, go... I was on my way to say hello to her with my jawbone when I noticed the man- who might've been spared had he not interfered- approach my vehicle.

He was almost to my window when I stepped out of the bus. With one crushing swoop I brought it around hard, connecting with his head and the side of the bus simultaneously, causing a brilliant explosion of red and grey matter. His body fell to the ground. Striding over the corpse, I circled the vehicle around the rear end. Through the tinted windows of the bus I could see the brown uniform of the guard moving quickly now to intercept me. Stepping around the back of the bus I again swung the bat. The sound this time was a sickening crack. The force of the blow actually ripped her skull open and caught her brain, sending it flying through the air and smacking the plexi-glass sliding door of the hospital. Her eyes rolled in her head, and her body swayed and dropped like a suddenly limp, fleshy t-ball stand. The blood gushed silently like a broken water main, flowing into the grate near the automatic door that was opening and closing over and over again, smearing her brains back and forth across the threshold.

I climbed into the driver's seat. My passenger was finally seated and buckled.

"Ready to go, Ma'am?"