Friday, March 4



Spirit isn't a bad guy, his eyes just get all spiraly sometimes and then he can't help but hurt people.

They stay that way for days at a time, spiraling around and around, allowing him no time to eat or sleep. His manic spree of trippings, tauntings, face-slappings, pinching, and all-around brutality are relentless. No one is safe, not your sexy teenagers, not your adorable children, not your middle-tax bracket parents, nobody.

Since his eyes started doing their crazy spirals, Spirit has stolen 152 bicycles, smashed 452 rented video tapes, exposed to direct sunlight 4,032 rolls of undeveloped vacation photographs, and 100,862 phone calls to his elderly parents have gone unanswered.

"Where's your math book now?" he yells at the 2nd grader.

"In your hand," she points up at his hand waving her math book around.

"What?" he cups a hand to his ear. "I can't hear you."

"It's right there in your hand," she says a little louder.

"Where?" and he throws the book off the bridge into the canyon. "I don't know where your math book is, but I think you'd better forget about doing your homework ever again, huh 2nd grader? Get ready for some detention or bad grades, yeah?"

She gets mad, kicks his big toe. He howls in pain and pulls on her pig tail. She scratches at his wrist. He shoves her back and runs away.

Once his eyes return to their nomal stasis, Spirit curls up in his bed and cries. His insides are cold and twisted from all this eye-spiral business, but he doesn't know how to control it. He thinks maybe he should move to the Arctic where he can't hurt anyone anymore, but when he's mean and can't help it, when he's right there in the pain-causing moment, he loves it.

And at least he's got that to look forward to.

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