Bring the Hammer Down
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(This contains foul language and a little of the ultra-violence.)
My head is pounding. It feels like someone is inside my skull trying to beat their way out with a sledge. I donít mind. I have more severe problems to deal with. Like the fact that the neighborís dog wonít stop barking and that lazy son-of-a-bitch wonít bring it in. Or better yet, tell it to shut the fuck up.
I head for my back door and pick up a small mallet a long the way. Iím not sure where. It just seemed to materialize in the palm of my hand. Iím certain that I could have grabbed some aspirins, but Iím afraid they may ease my angst. I donít know why, but I think I may need it. Somebodyís got to teach that dog how to live in a society and while Iím at it, maybe Iíll teach its owner a few tricks as well.
I have to kick a few pairs of muddy boots out of the way to open the back door. They smack against the wall and one of them punches a hole in the weak gypsum board. No matter, the house is full of them. I step through the door and the early evening air slaps against my cheeks. It chills them and invigorates my mind, which only seems to intensify my headache.
Good for me, but bad for dogs.
As I make my way to the adjoining yard, I wade through the foot high weeds that have turned my yard into a jungle. The neighborís grass is cropped short and for some reason this only angers me more. Partly because it makes my yard look worse and partly because they care for their lawn better then their goddamned pet. Christ, they make me fucking sick.
I stomp past the mangy gray mutt thatís barking and snarling in my direction. I resist the urge to cave its freaking skull in with my hammer. Instead, I climb up on my neighborís porch and break the window. I reach through the opening and unlock the door. My feet crunch on the broken glass as I step into the darkened house. The kitchen is clean and smells of ammonia, which just happens to be one of my favorite smells. Itís right up there with paint and gasoline.
I squeeze the hammerís handle as I brace myself to use it. I hear a radio blasting in the bathroom. Sounds of country fucking music assail my ears as if I needed another reason to kill this fat turd. The door is slightly ajar and I can hear him singing out of key with the tone-deaf crooner. I push the door in and find the bastard sitting on the toilet with his pants around his knees. He looks up at me and I canít tell if heís afraid or trying to squeeze out a fart. It doesnít matter. I swing the mallet full force into his head and a big dent forms above his right ear. He flops forward onto his face and his shitty ass is pointing in my direction. This sight only fuels my rage and I begin to repeatedly pound his head until it cracks open like an over stuffed piŮata. All kinds of muck pours from his cranium and pools around his face in a big reddish-yellow mess.
I grab at the back of his shirt with my left hand and drag him out of his house. The dog continues to bark at me as pull his owner toward him. The mutt doesnít stop until I drop the fat corpse within its chain's reach. Then the dog only barks intermittently between licks and bites of his master.
ďGood dog,Ē I say and head back to my house hoping he enjoys his first decent meal in a week.
If you have no questions or fears about your abilities, then you will learn nothing from your mistakes and know nothing about your limitations.