Into the dirt

I took a tyre iron to his head
I recall thinking there must be a precise degree of pressure to knock a man unconscious but not kill him.
As I made my move, I pushed it a little
Just to be certain.
Some of these fucking retards have thick, impenetrable skulls.
Hard to crack.
I took a second swing.
I wouldn’t say it felt good; it was out and out murder, to be sure.
But there was a certain sense of justice, righteousness in the act.
I felt divine and powerful.
I felt the back of the net.
I locked onto death and with needlepoint, rocket powered precision,
I swing fast.
Three times.
And down he went, into the dirt
Dead.


This man was a terrorist; he had killed dozens of innocent people.
No, wait...
This man was a German; I was making my escape from a Panzer division 1940.
This man was a creep, a paedophile. I took my chance in the prison.
This man was no one I knew. I took his wallet.
This man was a traffic warden, that’ll teach the cunt.
This man was your friend, yea, maybe that makes it different.

What I love about life, and what scares me senseless about it too,
is that life hangs in the balance of your current perception,
and whoever can tell the most convincing story wins.
My point was, I guess; never believe anyone,
but most of all, don’t trust your emotions.