The sun’s a knife and I step into the shop, wilting. The bell rings behind me as the door closes and I cannot believe this kid in front of me. Outside, on the street, only moments ago, I looked him over and dismissed him as just another insignificant no-one, a nothing; now I hate myself for being sucked in, foisted by his vanilla appearance. My head boiling and it makes me wonder. What’s in peoples minds these days? What are they thinking? These people who look the same, who dress the same, act the same, even speak the same language- but fuck me… women are from Venus?
It’s lucky for him I’m a super fast thinker, as my instinct was to strike. To smash his head into the steel corner of the fridge. And on fire, head buzzing, fingers burning, fill my fists with his shiny hair, yanking back and pushing down, his neck horizontal and impossible, Adams apple bobbing, spasmodic. Then, craning over him, our noses almost touching so he can see the hate in my eyes, scream
-Why?! Huh? With all the choice, all the variety the modern world offers, why the fuck do you want Fanta, you fucking faggot, cock sucking cunt?
spitting the words into his blood, before slamming him into the steel again, crunching his nose and some teeth, maybe the bone above his left eye, spearing a boot into his clean white shirt, and screaming at the cracked, bleeding skull, at his perfect, broken face
-What’s that? Well? Nothing? Nothing, you fucking fuck!
and snatching the bottle from his limp wrist, which is still proudly, inexplicably, holding it up like Lady Liberty herself, pound his head with it, like Babe
Whack!
-Faggot, fizzy, fucking, orange!
I’d love to do Singin’ in the Rain but I’m so incensed, teeth crunching, everything tasting of metal
-Drink, black, carbon, ated, shit!
Whack!
-Like a man!
Whack!
and satiated a little now, inspired and grinning, ad lib in some glorious encore
-You, fucking, stupid, bastard!!!!!
And unleash a final
Whack!
before ramming the bottle deep into the wheezing pulpy hole, which below the meat, opens into the canyon of his hideous Fanta guzzling gullet.
Death by Fanta.
So you, you faggot, you’re one fucking lucky- one fucking lucky cunt that I’m such a quick thinker. He’s turned from the fridge now, walking towards me, splashing through the evaporating puddles of fantasy, the orange ripples of Fantasmagoric delusion. His eyes, shining and confident find mine, his smile broad and friendly. He nods his head, even points the bottle in my direction, the fuck, and throws out a jovial
-Hello.
his mouth an igloo of glistening white teeth. Jesus fuck cunt. If you only knew
-Hello.
I echo, almost in song. He swaggers past and the fingernails of my right hand slice through the skin and furrow up the flesh of my left forearm. He’s flirting with the bitch behind the counter now, who after two years, still scowls when I come in.
Don’t look back, never look back.
I’m taking two bottles of Coke mother fucker, how does that grab ya? But all I hear is her laughter and he’s won. I pick up the closest bottle of Fanta and rub it along my arm, smearing it with thick warm blood and put it back in the fridge. The bell over the door tinkles behind me again and when I turn around he’s gone. Lucky cunt. A very fucking lucky Fanta drinker. If I wasn’t so intelligent, you’d be dead.
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