Hate being what it is, consumed me, chewed me up and spit me out to do my worst. I landed in a low life spot, a barroom scene with chewers and spittoons. I was some real cool asshole.

The guy next to me spilled his drink in my direction. Big smiles, sorry, sorry, hand on my shoulder, drunk as he was, breath in my face—letÕs be friends. Too late.

I grabbed his arm and twisted it sideways, forcing him against the bar. More drinks spilled. He screamed, then cursed, then pleaded. But I held him there unwilling to loose my advantage. He called to the crowd but I quickly set them straight with a glance. They looked straight ahead across the bar, staring into the mirror to catch the action. I let my drunk friend fall, and as he rose up spouting curses, I tapped out my message on his skull.

— Daniel Voznick ©2002