I feel I have seen enough and done enough to allow myself the possibility of being. The fight to be good, just, is not an embrace of perfection. I say this because I feel the clouds darken within as the need to explode with purpose begins to grow. Often the need is extinguished by the savoring and forceful kneading of sweetness, but that has not been the case as of late. Fate is brewing a purpose for the carrier of good.

Train. Expand the cauldron of rage; pull away from the fire.

10... 15... 20... The minutes mount. The watching of others in the gym as the muscles of might right are trained and drained...but darkness grows.

Beautiful sweet candy, stretching, working perfection in divinely revealing goodness. Balls of goo waddling around the room in hope of sticky sweet delightfulness, but doing little to reach such a pleasant and generous goal. Men training for battle, good and evil. Frightened boys as men, inflating themselves to scare off the world they so greatly fear. In the gym we find a cornucopia of citizenry still willing to dream and work for something more.

Push. Harder. Release the pressure the dark hand of fate builds within.

To be good does not mean to be perfect.

To wish to be perfect is not good.

A man crosses my view. The face is recognized. The eyes of justice lock, glaring. I have seen this man, heard stories of his vocal outbursts of violence threatened, always against women of age marked. Archie Ga, a woman called him, contemptuous of his treatment. Is this where the hand of fate wants dark justice?

Like the preparation of a meal, there is art in every battle. First, one must understand their opponent, and one who saves his rage and violent, threatening outbursts for elderly women is comfortably understood.

He turned away from the locked, until the moustached man with the tiny traumatized brain realized there was intent in the gaze — the slowness of this interpretation and reaction made it clear that the pebble in his head was there so he would make an entertaining rattling sound when shaken. He attempted intimidation by offering the look of a rabid dog, but when the face of justice’s pawn smirked and looked through him, he quickly turned away like a frightened chihuahua.

Let it go. His presence is too small.

But he is evil.

Tiny evil.


Exercising, I kept eyes routinely fixed on Archie Ga’s Hitleresque moustache — and his eyes when he would find the courage to look the way of the wait. Dark clouds of discomfort began to clap with thunder as the miscreant of meaningless man began to pace in discomfort like cornered game. The aura, the look he exudes, cry for his destruction, as nature knows how to scent fate’s appetite.

There was little doubt he wished to come, confront, challenge what he saw threatening before him, but as dumb as he was he could still see that the foe that wantingly awaited his action was not an elderly woman.

The exercise continued, extended, but eventually had to come to an end, and though the cornered animal was frightened, he would not strike. It was time to leave. The hand of fate is preparing me for something special, but this nothing was just a gift for refining senses...I suppose.

I leave, approaching him, looking through his cowardly nothingness, and then he gives a gift.

“What you lookin’ at? I know you?”

Stopping before him, I look through him, offering no words. This is battle and there is no need to give your opponent ammunition, no matter how enjoyable. I keep quiet, staring, watching his uneasiness.

“What you been lookin’ at me like that for? I don’t know you. Do I?”

Silences. Stare. Move a couple of inches closer, slowly.

“Wha’chu doin’?”

What pleasure would be gifted if Archie Ga would take a swing in such a public venue. The rage that has been building for purpose could be freely expressed. Alas, he is a berater of weak, old women and will not strike the antithesis before him...no matter how much the strike is welcome. Yes, I could strike him with a righteous blow for an education in civility, but I do not wish to be carted away by cleaners of laws randomly applied. Another time in a private place, perhaps... No, gleefully and joyfully, but not now. As much as I wish to do otherwise, I remain silent, hoping he will defy his nature for a moment and strike...yet, I am still not an elderly woman.

“Fuckin’ puto!” he shouts, gesturing with his hands as he walks away.

What can one do but laugh at his absurd existence.

Mustache freezes. There it is, all over his face. He wants to attack. The rage is making him pulse violently. His frightened heart wants to attack, but his cowardly mind refrains. His eyes ablaze, it is clear he wishes to burn me alive. His teeth grind, desperate to tear at my flesh. If I were an elderly woman, I would be dead within a couple of violent minutes. In fact, his rage is so consuming, he might actually attack if I were a slight young woman. Still, standing before him was a man, laughing at the charade of a pretend, empty man hidden behind the machismo of a Hitleresque moustache.

It is necessary. I laugh again, chuckling in hope.

The moustache turned and walked away. There was no doubt a small — probably elderly — woman was going to receive the rage his cowardly soul of evil could not muster for a man his physical match.

The darkness within swirled. I saw the hands of good around his neck, slowly squeezing the evil out of him as he cried and pleaded for another breath. He walked away, but my mind saw something more. The fact that he fell to the ground was coincidental; he must have tripped over something.

It was time to leave. It was the only way the mind would release the worthless man’s neck.

Fate, I don’t understand your ways, but I trust.