I’m going to kill my landlady for raising my rent. I’ll do it with my bare hands. The good thing about women is they can’t fight back. They’ll throw a knee to your nuts, always. They think it’s the magic word. But your whole life has been dodging nut punches. You just swivel your hips like breathing. She gets a knee full of thigh muscle and now she’s on one foot falling backwards. You fall on her, knock the wind out of her, get her neck with your left hand. Pull up a fist with your right. You’ve won the argument.
I’ll do to this to my landlady. She raised the security deposit too, the cunt. That’s the difference between just muttering about it and throwing ten rights into her temple while the back of her head bounces off the pavement and she sees stars. The insult. How the fuck much do you need you greedy whore. Raise the deposit I know I’ll never get back. Who’s ever had a deposit returned. Now when I move I just don’t cut the last check. Fuck you, sue me.
The problem with me is I can’t sustain. Enough gas in the tank to grab an old woman by the throat. But I instantly know what I’m doing. Hurting a weak living being. She’s just trying to cover property taxes. Gotta be all or nothing. You can’t live 65% angry. You have to be the Buddha or you have to take flamethrowers to schools. You have to be James Holmes– you have to carry that rage through planning. Purchasing weapons. Multiple shopping trips to buy not just firearms but fucking fanny packs. I went to the gun shop and the fucking line was too long. You took a number like the deli. Mine was 62. Three people being served by clerks, fondling absurd matte black HK tactical weapons chambered in 22– why? What are you going to do with that? I know shit about guns but you’re not the fucking Mossad. You’re a fat guy from Tujunga. They’re serving three of them at a time. Meanwhile a TV screen next to your head blathers about some new piece of plastic tactical garbage for squirrels. One guy finally gets finished. Walks off to start the race war. They call number 29.
I just want a detective special to scare kids who come for my bike. Plus it was for research. A character needed it. Now he’ll just hang himself.
I told myself I’d wait a year to kill my neighbors’ dog. Because I didn’t want to. I knew I’d have given up by then. They let the thing out and it killed my cat. Their pit bull. This killing machine, the only kind of dog there is now. Shelters in LA, just pit bulls and chihuahuas for reasons having to do with all racism being accurate. Before that two months coming up with reasons to do it. It could get out again. Hurt someone else’s cat. Someone’s kid. Now I hope it does. My other neighbor’s cat went missing and who knows. Could have called the city. Reported it as a vicious animal. But the dog has to kill two other pets before they’ll take it down. Plus no one likes a snitch. Everyone likes a guy who chops up his neighbor’s pets with the axe from his 2004 Patrick Bateman Halloween costume.