Roger was pissed. As usual.
Just that morning he got another telemarketing call, waking him up half an hour before the alarm.
He had been in the middle of a great fucking dream where he was riding Jennifer Lopez doggie style, his strong musclebound hands pulling her hair back like the reins of a bucking bronco and giving it to her good.
"Fuck me! Fuck me harder!" the dream-Jennifer screamed.
"Ride me, you HARD STUD!!!"
And then.... BBBRRRRRRRRING!!!!!
Roger was awake, instantly, muttering curse words under his breath and rubbing his eyes.
Before the phone had rung a second time, Roger, snapped it up quickly.
Roger heard, "Hello," from an automated voice.
"YOU have just won a free all-expense paid trip to Las Vegas. Press one now to claim your prize!".
Roger pressed the number one. Hard.
After a few seconds, the operator answered.
"Hello. Can I have your first name please?" a bright and happy voice said on the other end of the line.
"Yes my first name is Stick-It-Up-Your-Ass," said Roger bright and with mock enthusiasm.
"Oh, very good sir," the operator said, the professional tone a little more dark.
"I thought you'd like it, you cunt," Roger spat into the receiver before slamming the phone down in its cradle.
Roger hated his job, which was actually that of a telemarketer as well. But then, Roger hated everything. And everyone. And he made no exception to himself, either. Roger hated himself too.
There were times, oh yes, that Roger even hated the fucking sun for shining.
Roger had what might be called an 'anger problem' by people of a more professional bent.
Over the course of his life he had had 3 ulcers and he was nursing a fourth. One of them was when he was a kid, two more in his twenties. He had been in jail more times than he could remember, and less times than he probably deserved to be.
Roger was a 34 year old white man standing a modest 5'10, had a dark unkempt beard, and was built like a linebacker. He almost never smiled. When he walked down the street, people instinctively got out of his way. Roger almost hoped that they didn't so that he would have an excuse to beat the living hell out of them.
In elementary school, before he was sent to the 'special school', he was called 'Roger the Rager', or sometimes just 'Rager'. But not many kids called him that more than once and kept all their teeth.
Today, Roger felt just like he had on the day of his last anger management group that he went to, by court order. It just hadn't worked out.
He had 'threatened' someone, they said.
NO he hadn't!
He was in denial they said!
No he wasn't!
Roger disagreed with their assessment of him. And he told them so in no uncertain terms, throwing one of their chairs through one of the stucco walls of the meeting room in the process.
"Assessment," Roger thought, rolling it over in his mind like a piece of bitter candy.
Yes, ASSSSS-essment.
How many 'assssessments' had there been in his life? How many ASS-essor ASS-hole ASSistants had ASSESSED him half-ASSedly, sitting across from them on their ASSES in their immaculate ASS offices; their polished, manicured nails held together oh-so-sagely with their goddamn stupid smug and condescending professional smirks?
Roger’s jaw tightened at the thought.
Roger's only goddamn wish was that all of them had one goddamn neck. And that his hands were around it.
On his way to work that morning, someone in a Toyota had cut him off in traffic and Roger quashed the sharp impulse to ram his car into the stupid asshole's back-end, gripping the wheel tightly with white knuckles and gritting his teeth hard as he stomped the brake like killing a giant bug.
'COCKSUCCCKERRRRR!!!!' Roger fumed.
"It's okay," thought Roger. "Today I'll treat myself to a good lunch. As a reward for not going on a shooting rampage. I'll get Marian Berry Creme Cheese at the library cafe. I like that".
But then, at lunch, the sandwich lady at the counter screwed up his order.
Roger had come all the way down to the library cafe specifically so he could enjoy one of their Washington Square sandwiches on sourdough bread with a simple fucking substitution of Marian Berry Creme Cheese (instead of chipotle like it came with) like he usually has on Thursdays.
Lifting the bread he looked again at the wet beige sauce of the chipotle.
"I fucking knew it," he muttered under his breath. "I specifically asked for Marian Berry Creme cheese!"
SON OF A BITCH!!
Roger could feel his jaw tighten and ache now as he closed his eyes in frustration.
"FUUU-UHCK" he said softly.
He could feel the anger starting to rise inside like a venom-filled spider coming out of its hole. He had been waiting for the taste of that Marian Berry Creme Cheese all day long and now it was spicy chipotle he found instead on his sandwich.
"Am I going to kill someone?" he thought to himself opening his eyes.
Roger felt almost giddy, lightheaded.
"Am I going to kill someone today?" he thought again.
Another part of him said "count to ten". Because that's what he was always taught.
'Count to 10'
Roger sighed.
"1---2---3---"
Roger took a sip of the strawberry milk. It would calm his stomach. It almost tasted like the Marion Berry creme cheese.
Suddenly a gnat flew in Roger's face.
Jesus Christ!
Roger batted it away. He could sense someone out of the corner of his eye glancing at him, warily.
Roger ignored the look and closed his eyes.
"Okay, 1--2--3---"
"Okay take a deep breath now"
"4---5---6".
Gradually, Roger felt himself start to calm down a little. Maybe things weren't so bad.
Later, he could go home and jerk off or something. Maybe punch the punching bag at the gym. Or walk. Those were 'positive' outlets, he thought.
"7--8--9--"
That's when the man who looked like an overgrown twit started blubbering like some kind of simpering girl over some sodden newspaper article he was holding.
"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHH HAH HAH HAH HAH!" the man wailed.
"Jesus fucking feathery Christ on 10 rubber crutches!! Can't I just enjoy one goddamn SANDWICH in my LIFE??" Roger thought to himself, almost saying it out loud.
He had lost count. Where was he? 6 or 7. 8?
GODDAMMIT!!!!!
Roger watched the crying man, his face a twisted mask of contempt and disdain and almost disbelief that any 'MAN' could be such a fucking WIMP.
Madly, suddenly, he despised the man. He despised his weakness. He despised any world that would create such a fucking sobbing little pussy of an excuse for a human being.
Roger hated the crying man with every molecule of his being. Whoever he was. Whatever he was crying about. He didn't care. Roger hated him. And the hate felt... good. Very very good. Cleansing really.
"That man should be dead," Roger thought suddenly. "Fucking DEAD".
NO ONE should cry and carry on like that in a public place. No one! Unless they were some kind of goddamn coward. Some kind of twisted fucking retarded pussified freak!
The man sobbed even louder. Now Roger could see somebody asking the man if he were allright.
Roger heard the word 'ambulance' being used.
"He's not going to be all right," said Roger under his breath, and frowned.
And then it hit him like a monster of energy exploding in his mind.
Roger was going to kill that crying man. If it was the last fucking thing he ever did.
Whoever he was, whatever it was about. The crying man had laid down the last straw on Roger's back, and this was it.
Roger's mouth gaped and his eyes were wide with the stark realization of the sudden epiphany.
I. Am. Going. To. Kill. Him.
Wow.
Kill. As in, not as a metaphor not as an idle threat or a fantasy. This time Roger, somehow, was going to commit murder. Maybe it wouldn't be today, or tomorrow. He didn't know how. But eventually, their paths would cross. He would find a way.
Even if he got caught, even if he went to jail, he would be comforted for the rest of his life by the memory of looking into that sobbing idiotic twit's dying eyes, and that the last thing that sobbering cretin would see would be the look of satisfaction on his face. .
He could see it, he knew it, he could visualize it taking place. He knew it with absolute hundred percent certainty.
In fact, he could even taste it.
Roger took a bite of his sandwich, tasting the sharp tanginess of the hot chipotle spill pour over his tastebuds, mixed in with the sprouts and cucumbers. His nostrils flared.
"Yeah motherfucker, keep crying. Keep crying. Cuz I'm gonna give you something to cry about, allright. Something you will cry about for the rest of your miserable days", Roger thought.
"No doubt".
Roger took another bite of his sandwich feeling the slight burn of the chipotle as he swallowed.
He watched the man cry and whimper and sniff and sob.
Gingerly, almost dapperly, Roger dabbed his napkin against the side of his mouth.
And then slowly, and very very wrongly, Roger began to smile.
