Without Hesitation or Consideration

A hot July afternoon burdened with forboding of explosive events.

Emotional as well as meterorological.

Bobby was straining to dig the stump out of the ground. He had taken the tree down three years ago and vowed to remove the stump immediately. But procrastination was his strong point. Some would say weak point, but he was good at it. You gotta be good at something in life, if only to justify putting your feet on the floor every morning. In Bobby's case, procrastination would have to do.

He was sweating like a pig and had taken his t-shirt off an hour ago, not caring if the neighbors were offended by the revolting gut hanging over his belt. He hoped it made them sick; provoking the neighbors was sport to him. He hated people. Despised meaningless conversation made for the sake of killing awkward silences.

If he was going to listen to someone, they better have something to say. Even better, they should make him laugh. And when he spoke, they better fucking listen. His words mattered.

Bobby switched from water to beer a little while ago. Not a smart move in this heat, but he was not one to worry about consequences. People who considered consequences, ended up doing nothing. Fucking losers. Bobby did shit. And his shit mattered.

He was going at the stump with a pickaxe. Not a chain saw, because he didn't trust himself with a chain saw, given the condition of his marriage.

He took another swig of his PBR tallboy. Shit, this stuff was good. A cooler sat next to him, originally stocked with a dozen beers, but the inventory had dwindled considerably. Ice cold, baby - that was the only way to have it.

He loved the beer and loved to chase it with whiskey. Until chasing wasn't enough - then it was whiskey time! Beer fills you up, whiskey cuts right to the point. No wasted time. No whiskey right now, though - that would have been a bit much in this heat. Still....................

Bobby stopped every once in a while to question his industriousness. What the fuck was he doing? He had to be back at work tomorrow. Work was tough because it was combative. He wasn't gonna roll over for anyone, so he had to sneer at the boss and intimidate his workmates. Aloneness was what he craved; it was his natural state. But fucking bills do not allow for aloneness. You gotta go out and get money.

What a stupid fucking world.

He should be relaxing. But his wife was in the house.

His fingers wrapped around the nip in the side pocket of his cargo pants. Whiskey, baby. Water of life. He slipped it in there before heading out to the back yard. Told himself he'd save it for when the work was done. As a reward. He knew it wouldn't last that long. It was fucking warm, hot really, but Bobby downed it in one swallow. Disgusting, but effective.

The pickaxe chipped off another meaningless piece of stump. Jesus Christ - this was gonna take forever. It was Sunday. Football Sunday. Christ - the heat, the wife, and the job had turned his mind to mush.

Another beer made the trip from the cooler to his lips. He took a long, satisfying pull on that ice cold bad boy. As he was putting it down, he noticed the neighbor shaking his head, sliding the curtain back in place, and walking away from the window.

Fucking pretty boy. A lawyer with a fat bank account, snobby attitude, soft hands, and a Porsche.

The enemy.

Without hesitation or consideration, Bobby hurled the pickaxe through the neighbor's window, then calmly walked into his house to wait for the cops. He stared down his wife, who did not dare say a word, grabbed a bottle of whiskey and dialed up the NFL on the tube. It was fucking Sunday.

This was more like it.