Have you ever wanted to kill someone?

Some men are alive only because it is against the law to kill them. –attributed, various

Have you ever wanted to kill someone?

I came very close last Friday.

My intended target was a vile old bastard, universally despised, with an unkind word for everybody, summarized in this passage from Henry Miller’s The Air-Conditioned Nightmare: “a man, and I say it calmly and soberly, whom I could kill in cold blood.  I could shoot him down in the dark and go quietly about my business, as if I had just brushed a mosquito off my arm.”

There are no clichés or maxims that will save you in the fiery moment you decide someone must die.  I didn’t give a fuck that the bastard himself probably suffered the most from this cruel remarks (not always true; sociopaths feel nothing).  Once I decided the world would be better off without him, fantasy after fantasy about inflicting a gruesome death upon him played and replayed.

It was the hated job where this all took place (too many cameras around) and I’m wondering if on Monday there’ll be any blowback from the events Friday.  The old bastard now knows I hate him, but not how close he came to getting his head bashed in.  I swear to fucking Christ just typing this makes me ready to kill all over again.

But I’ve said too much. The prisons creak with murderers and the only difference between them and me (and you) is they acted on their impulses.

The rude elderly pissant, a coward who likely was treated cruelly by others, is not worth this many words, or any words, as there are millions like him around the globe:  horrible, failed human beings despite displays of wealth or other outward appearances.

A real human being accepts his own depths of hatred as natural and normal, the monstrous power of emotions over the feeble intellect.  Hopefully society provides enough programming that the deadliest impulses stay suppressed.  Hopefully.

If I see the old SOB again–and I’m sure I will–I can’t tell you I won’t feel this furious.  It’s natural to destroy and even more natural to destroy ugly things.  Right now my hatred remains beautiful and alive.  Something’s gotta give.

Quoticle – Happy Fadda’s!

He was more to be envied than pitied, for his sleep was not a lull or an interval but sleep itself which is the deep and hence sleeping ever deepening, deeper and deeper in sleep sleeping, the sleep of the deep in deepest sleep, at the nethermost depth full slept, the deepest and sleepest sleep of sleep’s sweet sleep. He was asleep. He is asleep. He will be asleep. Sleep. Sleep. Father, sleep, I beg you, for we who are awake are boiling in horror…

~Henry Miller Tropic of Cancer