...I am bedeviled by your human emotion.
I actually felt guilt today. I think. How do you people handle this? Like Butthead, I hate things that suck. And your stupid emotions, the range of them, sucks.
I liked me better when I was me. I was comfortable in my skin, being whatever I am. And then the wife came along and began to chip away at the stone, and make me feel. For someone other than me. Be very happy, and relieved that you are nowhere near me as I molt.
I want to hang on to my old self, and pull it out as needed, and rub it for the genie to appear and do my bidding.
Do I have hope? What is this 'Hope' of which you speak? You want me with you when the shit encounters the rotating oscillator. You want my darkness, the things I can do without my pupils changing at all. And still, some of you think I am bragging.
I don't want to be me. I hate me. I can imitate sanity, but it is not me. Though I am not insane. I never have hurt someone who didn't practically beg for it.
One night, evening, actually, the wife and I, pre-kids, were in a mall food court, just before a movie we wanted to see was to start. A large group of youthful black gangsters came in and invaded the place. And I could smell the scent of gun oil, and the sharp bright tang of brass cartridges...
Some of them hard-eyed me, and scoped out the wife as well, she in her prime. Mindful of surveillance cameras, I slipped my (unlicensed, unregistered) .45 Colt auto out of my waistband (holsters show intent, in court) and put it in my lap, under the table. I removed my mags from my Bianchi ballistic nylon pouches, and distributed them into my coat pockets, and the front of my pants.
I caught the eye of the gang's Alpha Male, quite by accident. I was telling the wife of the escape route we would need to take, and as I scanned the court, I caught his eye, and knew he was the leader.
He saw me seeing him, and I believe he saw his death, because as soon as I registered him, I knew I was going to kill him first.
I could smell that scent that denotes a shotgun. Those plastic tubes full of death (shotgun shells) have a scent. As do rubber grips, and slide assemblies. More than one. Earlier in the week, one of these black gangstas had his shotgun, mounted on a strap on his shoulder, had an accidental discharge in a mall, that fragged him an a couple of friends. Left a nice crater in the floor of the JC Penney's.
Suffice to say, they thought about fucking with me, and didn't. Did I look intimidating? Heck no. A couple of whites, twenty gangstas? Shit, don't kid yourself.
But I had a bullet for anybody who cared to be my daisy, and they knew it. When the wife and I rose to go to the theatre across the big hall, I slipped my pistol up under my armpit. That, folks, is why you Parkerise.
The wife came home from work today, and said 'honey, cover me while I take out the trash, there's a tweaker out there collecting cans and bottles'. I don't think she knows, but I had her covered with a scoped rifle both there, and back.
She moved out there wide, so as to present me a target if one lunged at her. Then moved in, dumped the trash bag in, and came on back home.
Yep, that's my baby. And then Johnny sang her the 'Welcome Home' song, even though she'd been home for an hour (at least) already, and he had sung it to her when she got home.
I love my little family.