Fire gun shots into the ground. Because maybe that will dissipate the rage.
But there’s nothing quite like violence. Unfiltered, teeth gritting, fist clenching, maniacal, heart racing violence. It’s graceful and sticky, with fear clinging to its back. Violence, because pain. And pain, because that’s when succumbing begins. The sharp edge, the blunt object, the swelling, and then scabbing, and then tearing, and then breaking, and then beating, and then sanguine down dripping between lips. Eyes that roll back in head and cold ground on cool cheek.
It’s a fetish, maybe, while holding that look of triumph and ire in my eyes and drinking cowardice from the frightened face of whomever it is I am about to hit.
I fantasize about driving around this city and running over bikers. I fantasize about biking around this city and getting hit by cars.