bloody handI masked taped my right hand with a roll of quarters inside the palm.

Each blow I delivered cracked a different bone in his shattered face which started looking like a freaking accident at a ketchup factory. But believe me this was all by design. It was by re-design. I began re-designing his facial features until he lost voice and vision and every ounce of dignity.

He stopped moaning and I felt it necessary to begin kicking his ribs until their splintered ends pierced his lungs. Ironically this is a sure fire method to determine if he is still breathing. Dark red fluid streamed from every opening in his pathetic excuse of a cranium. I was baptized in the blood of my hated enemy and but felt clean.

I sent so many blow and kicks to his face and ribcage I became sore and somewhat fatigued. It was a humid night and that often drains your energy reserves further when engaging in strenuous exercise. I think I lost in water what he lost in blood.

I could see urine on the ground and smelled his bowel movement in the air. He pissed and shitted himself like the weak willie I expected to find in this parking lot. These scum bags are always big and strong around women until a Man enters the picture.

I new his goddamn name, his schedule, his physical description and his car. But most of all I knew this piece of puke nearly raped my mother at the hospital where she had worked for thirty two years. I rewarded the janitor who saved her and he told me everything. Did he live or did he die? Who the fuck cares?

My mother would never approve of any of this. I doubt you’ll tell her either.

By Mark Rossi

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