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Rude Rage #1

The man had his eyes open, but nobody was home. He lie on the tile, black and white and red all over. His swollen face cast about in wild terror and he spasmed as if he could only control some of his muscles at one time. Everyone could see that it was done, but Homer liked to make a point about these things.  

"I can't help but notice that you're not talking anymore, Timmy. Do you mind if I call you Timmy? You look like a Timmy to me. I have to tell you, Timmy. You were pretty rude back there."

His voice was astonishingly gentle after the sudden and ferocious display of violence. Every person in the cafe was frozen in place, wide eyes locked on the huge man with bloody fists. His words were quietly conversational, but no one missed them. These had been the first words Homer had said since he'd walked up and punched the man in the throat.

The man had been in the face of a server with an entitled tirade about one thing or another, it didn't matter.  The server was maybe 22 years old, and was having a rough time of it.  Light from the decorative glass fixtures caught on the spittle flying from the red-faced abuser.  The obscenities the man used were personal and lude, besides loud. Impolite behavior really ticked Homer off, but the slinger was still steaming before him and he hadn't eaten since Memphis.  His meaty right hand made the fork look tiny as it hovered above the plate.  He had tried hard to remain calm as he reluctantly looked over his shoulder at the scene. The angry customer didn't seem drunk, which was too bad for him as it would have been at least an excuse for his behavior. He wore a dark suit that was clearly worth more than a month of the kids wages and was pointing at an expensive watch. Homer noticed the adorable little family in the corner booth, a mom, dad, and three little boys.  The boys were very young, and couldn't be stopped from staring and listening to the filthy language the man was shouting. Homer carefully set the fork down on his perfectly aligned napkin. He didn't need a repeat of that truck stop out of Columbia. 

"...kill yourself with your apron strings?! Then I can ask someone else to fix my motherfu-URK!"

The look in the man's eyes as his trachea crumpled under unexpected blunt force trauma had been priceless. Homer was very fond of a well executed surprise. The suit would have fallen to his knees right then if an arm thick with muscle and scars hadn't grabbed him by the shirt and held tight. Homer tried to think of a name that a businessman wouldn't like to be called as he propped him against the formica countertop. Alternating between right and left fists, Homer smashed into the man's ribs. They crackled after the second blow, but on the third left there was a satisfying snap. The sound echoed in the small establishment like a primal drumbeat. There was even a scream as the young family scrambled for the door. Homer turned and met the eyes of the oldest boy, maybe 6 or 7 years old. He thought he saw a smile at the corner of the child's mouth, but Homer didn't know much about kids.  He'd probably only made things worse, he had a habit of that.  It couldn't be helped. Ironically, Homer reacted to cruelty in other people in a very particular way. He still hadn't thought of a name. He'd have to come up with one on the fly.

His hands exerted the crushing force of a vise on Timmy's fragile bones. The finger ones popped and crackled as the joints came apart and delicate bones shattered.  He realized at this moment that he needed to stop before he killed again.  He quickly composed himself and stood.  He fished in his back pocket for the fat leather wallet.  A bloodied hundred slapped the counter. 

"For this asshole's meal... And for the trouble."

Another spoiled bill joined the first. He grinned and turned toward the door.

"Plus your tip."

*******

Homer stripped off his shirt and used it to mop his armpits before tossing it in the drivers seat. He took a swig of the whisky and tossed it in after without capping it.  He squinted his eyes at the dying sun, then looked for an invisible place 30 degrees south of it. The weathered pack settled over his broad naked shoulders and he lit the fire that would signal his arrival.  His masters waited out there in the desert, and it was considered the worst manners to come without blood and fire fresh on his hands.

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