Day of Rage

 

(Being angry isn't an excuse for bad behavior.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 6 a.m. and drank a cup of freshly brewed coffee. Then I read the headlines on my smartphone while taking a shit. A 13-year-old Korean orphan moved in with his aunt and uncle after his parents died. The kid is plagued with a low IQ, but he’s big and strong just like Lenny in Steinbeck’s famous tale, Of Mice and Men. Anyway, his aunt told him to stop playing video games, and junior went completely nuts. In fact, he beat the woman to death with his fists. He’s currently in custody undergoing observation at a mental hospital, but because of his age, no criminal charges will be filed. On the peninsula, minors under 14 aren’t held responsible for their actions.

I ate hash browns for breakfast as I watched Fox News. A nutty transvestite from Tennessee lost her marbles and stormed into a Christian school with a couple of assault rifles. Sadly, she shot and killed six people in total before the cops arrived and blew her head off. Three of the victims were only nine years old. This slaughter happened 48 hours before a planned day of rage is scheduled to be held by the transgender community in Washington D.C. Coincidence? Well, let’s hope so. The last thing my country needs is an army of angry crossdressers mowing down innocent civilians on the street. What’s next? Flying monkeys?

The Dragon Lady looked at me. “I take da midterm exams for many day next month.”

I shrugged. “OK, we should manage without you. It’s not forever, right?”

“But what about Dorry?”

“What about her? The puppy will be fine on her own while you’re at school.”

“Maybe I put her in da doggy hotel.”

“That’s too expensive. Just leave her in the living room with lots of bones. Trust me. Dolly will manage.”

Korea has hotels for pets. They are fancy kennels where the animals get to play with each other under the watchful eyes of a human chaperone. But they cost thirty bucks a day. Maybe even more. And I don’t have that kind of cash. Like I’ve said a million times, I’m a broke dead dick. And to make matters worse, none of you fuckheads and retards are buying my novel. I fear that I’ll eventually be buried in a potter’s field. I shit you not.

On the bright side, work went well. I shot the crap with my high schoolers.

I said, “The Tell-Tale Heart is a truly disgusting story. For instance, some poor old coot who never did a thing to anybody gets murdered and dismembered before being buried under the floorboards. So why do you think people still read it?”

One girl raised her hand. “To understand the mind of the author.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

Silence.

I cleared my throat. “Sometimes, the human condition is completely messed up. And a good writer refuses to bury this truth under the rug. Look at what just happened in America. A mentally ill woman who wanted to be a man gunned down a bunch of innocent children and oldsters at a private Christian school in Tennessee. I mean, what kind of crap is that? But it happens all the time.”

A boy raised his hand. “Do you think that Edgar Allen Poe was a psychopath? He produced some very bleak stories.”

I smiled at him. “No, Edgar wasn’t some soulless criminal who got his jollies by hurting people. He loved his wife, and he was a respected member of the Baltimore community. He simply knew the kind of material that tickles our fancy. He remains popular because he’s entertaining.”

Later that evening, I got home at 6 p.m. and ate dinner with my family. We had chicken and hot rolls. The food was terrific.