"War and courage have done more great things than charity. Not your pity but your bravery has saved the unfortunate up to now."

FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE
Thus Spoke Zarathustra
1883

"The gods are never far away," I told the psychiatrist as I peered out of his the blinds concealing his office from the light.

The small man, dressed in a tan suit, sat with his legs crossed and looked at me with great sympathy before saying, "Do you ever see them?"

My face jerked from the parking lot and glared at him. "Hell no, doc. I ain't crazy. Ya think I see sprites and fairies square dancing on the machinery at work? I'm imaginative, but I ain't crazy."

"What gods are these you speak of?"

I shrugged and walked around his office, my lanky body stretching as I went. A lot of neurosis and psychosis paid for this guy's wood encrusted office done over in Edwardian style. "Oh, sometimes I think they are just out of sight, spirits, ya know? I don't think there are any benign, sweet gods running around with pointed ears. Gods or devils in my book, but I think something beyond my consciousness speaks to me."

"You can lie down," he offered a hand at his couch.

I looked at the inviting plush cushion on the couch as if it were covered in worms. "No thanks, doc. I stand eight to twelve hours a night at work. I can manage now."

Never betraying any emotion, he asked, "You came here freely to try and work this out. No one at work as complained about your behavior?"

"Oh, a few think I'm kind of goofy because of the stuff I write."

"You write?" he asked, again not betraying a feeling via his visage. He'd rule at poker, I tell you what.

"Old stories of barbarian times, swords and stuff."

"D&D?"

"No. I can't pronounce the names of them guys. If they were all named JOHN or MARY maybe I could. I do real historical stuff with a weird twist. Heroic high fantasy I think it's called. Anyways, that's the odd thing, doc."

"Yes?"

"It's like I lived it, sorta, ya know? It's like I rally felt the grip of the sword, the swing of the axe and can taste the blood."

He thought for a moment before inquiring, "What does the blood taste like?"

"Copper."

"Have you ever harbored homicidal fantasies?"

"Homicidal?"

He grinned. "Murderous, then."

I frowned and retorted, "Ease up, doc, I ain't an idiot!"

He raised his right eyebrow and then said, "Perhaps this will take deeper analysis than this."

"My Pa thinks I'm just creative. It's sort of weird though. I'm at work and suddenly I zone out and am someplace else."

"Does this interfere with your job?"

I shrugged again. "Hell, makes it more tolerable really. A lot of folks work 77 hours a week where I punch the clock. They walk in and out like they are on the Bataan Death March. If I didn't have a creative mind I would snap, I guess."

"Then why are you talking to me? Are you concerned about it taking a large role in your psyche?"

"Actually, I'm doing it so you can tell my Ma that I'm not crazy."

"Pardon?"

"My Ma is an old fashioned gal and thinks I'm wacko for writing this stuff. Even if I try and do a western, a zombie shows up."

He sighed. "Mr. Allison, I really don't think you are insane or mentally ill. You are daydreaming and exhibiting creative behavior in your early thirties many teens do every day. I say if it doesn't blur reality, you are fine."

"Thanks Doc. Can I have that in writing?"

* * *

I told you that story so I could see if you can make sense of this next part.

Factory work is a boring job, but it can really pay the bills. We have highs and lows, but it's steady work. One can meet a variety of different people. I never knew such folk really existed until I got inside that plant. Every politician and minister should work a summer in such a factory to see what the underbelly of society really thinks.

Aside from every type of ism one can name, alcoholism, voyeurism, lesbianism, fetishism etc...there are tales to break the heart or make you shake your head. Jimbo Jenkins snapped the other day. We all figured someone would sooner or later. The hours were intolerable, twelve a day seven days a week and so many good folks retired. Plus, Jimbo was a drinker, had done plenty of Cocaine in him and his nerves were shot. Plus, three of the women he had pregnant in the factory refused to get an abortion while one did. When word came down that his wife discovered this, (she worked in personal and hired all of the gals Jimbo endowed with child) the hammer fell.

People actually joke what would really happen if a guy came in with a gun. So many bikers and bar brawlers inhabit our midst that the jokes are rampant on what they would do. When Jimbo pulled out a nine millimeter automatic and shot the foreman, Tom Jones (no kidding) between the eyes, reality was a sobering agent. Not one tough guy stepped up to do anything, not even wipe the brains off the assignment board. They scattered like rats off a ship.

I saw it from a distance and everybody heard the shot. Jimbo entered the production office and shot Marie Donaldson in the heart once and the belly twice before returning to the production floor. He started heading my way. The fact that Joanna Preston, one of the women bearing Jimbo's seed, worked in my area, the Screw Line (hold the jokes please), led me to assume he was coming after her.

Should I have run like everyone else? Yeah, maybe. Something primal seized my mind as Jimbo stalked around the end of the machine covered in chipped green paint. Looking like a cross between a wolf and a WWF wrestler, the man in faded bibbed overalls cut an imposing figure. My right hand dropped as easily as when I open doors in the dark at home. Again, a door opened for me in my self as I grabbed a long metal bar we kept around in case of an accident. This bar could pry open the rollers in the Screw Line machinery with ease and it provided me with the gateway to what came naturally. There was no thought on how I would fight him as I gripped this bar by the end...feeling almost like I held a sword handle.

I decided I wasn't going to flee and that if death lurked in this factory, so be it. So many folks worked thirty years in that place, only to retire and die after a couple years of freedom. Oscar Wilde would say, screw that. Maybe this was my destiny after all, I recall thinking. I also recollect wondering if I was a real dumbass.

When Jimbo faced me a few yards away and tried to shoot me in the heart, I thought perhaps my fantasies were getting the best of me. A roar rebounded off the metallic surroundings and I slammed into the mesh safety wall, sinking a few inches as he looked back for her on the line. His bullet missed my heart, but sank deep in the joint of my left shoulder. The pain was excruciating, but ebbed off slightly after the initial burst.

Thanking my Guardian Angel for at least deflecting the bullet away from any vital veins, I felt a cold sensation wash over me. The agony, the shooting tremors of burning bolts in my flesh seemed to rest in my brain...reminding me of my family and their past. My ancestry stood up and screamed with me to fight as I grabbed the bar tighter, peeled myself off the wet mesh and took a step behind Jimbo.

I heard him scream at Joanna, "Yer gonna get rid of that kid now! I ain't spendin' my every wakin' hour in this hell to pay fer another mouth to feed!"

Figuring he would punctuate his sentence with a shot, I reared back and swung the bar down, slamming it full force into the top of his skull. Indeed, a gunshot went off, but it was after I connected. I heard a ghastly, short scream, but soon saw Joanna running. Her clothes, too tight for a gal her size, were clean and her teased hair bounced as she booked on out of there. Hey, he missed! Now the Holy Ghost was on my side too. Well, I hoped so, but I think he harbored qualms on my actions after that.

Jimbo's legs quivered as she vanished from my sight. The man in front of me collapsed. His knees hit the rubber mat by the Screw line with great force and his right hand shuddered involuntarily. I could see a small dent in the top of his blue CUBS baseball hat, even though his head was jerking to the left regular-like. I decided to make sure of my intentions so I swung the bar down again, giving out a grunt of rage that would've made my Germanic ancestors do the wave at a sporting event. The bar never rolled off his head this time. It stayed there firm, planted in the valley of his skull, sunken in several inches. Jimbo fell forward in slow motion and the bar slipped out of his head, taking a slop of fresh brain and graying hair with it.

I didn't let the bar go as folks started to gather around. The pain in my shoulder, so blinding a minute ago, was almost non-existent. I thought that was kinda weird. It felt different. The pain almost felt good.

I talked to the head Doc again after I healed up. The company made me this time. This convo was really short.

He asked me, "Are you shocked at how you responded?"

"Honest? Not really. I sorta solved all of my personal issues that day."

"But everyone thought you would be the first to snap due to your odd interests and gun collection."

"I didn't."

He smiled warmly. "You figured out why? Tell me why you didn't?"

"My life was never peaches and cream, but it wasn't as screwed up as Jimbo's. If was something different about me, I suppose. It was something in my blood."

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