Slaughter the Parents, part 3

I was standing in line at the post office watching the stupid little kid molest the automatic stamp-dispensing machine. The child-molester was having a grand ole time, fondling the poor machine’s buttons, probing its slots, and slapping its knobs like a domineering sadist, but the machine didn’t like it and beeped several times to indicate its displeasure at this sort of physical harassment. That’s when the child-molester’s father finally intervened, “Whoa there, champ, molest that machine gently.”

Okay, he didn’t actually use the word “molest,” but he did give that bastard son of his some coaching tips on how to best mistreat equipment that doesn’t belong to either of them. And then lo! The child-molester’s little brother finally decided to join in the fun. Now the father really had his hands full. Molesting the machine must be a harmonious, unaggressive activity emphasizing the warm and fuzzy virtues of sharing!

Anyway, there we were, myself and the other customers all standing inside an actual post office with this shining example of societal decay occurring right before our very eyes, and not even one of us went postal in response. Sure, I wanted to slap the two kids and kick the dad where his scrotum should have been, but I wasn’t heavily intoxicated so my inhibitions were still firmly in place and I had no booze with me to remedy that little problem. So instead I did what I always do in such situations and fantasized about how effectively a modern Viking would have handled the situation—with guile and tact.

If Björn Svensson had been there he’d have just been standing in line, the cool, disheveled drunk guy who doesn’t look like he actually has enough money to mail his package to his mom because he spent it all on his brown-bagged bottle of Jack Daniel’s that he keeps taking nonchalant sips out of and not caring whenever he spills some on his parcel when he’d finally lose his patience with the little child-molesters and voice his almighty opinion:


“What fan? I don’t see a fan.” The dad would be looking at him, all concerned because a drunk Viking with a battle-axe strapped to his back had just said something hostile-sounding towards him and his little sadists.

Björn would respond simply: “[inebriated slurring of words]…FUCK.”

This would offend the father, who would counter with something stupid and predictable like: “Hey come on, watch your language, there are young children present.”

Fortunately, Björn would have been drinking from the brown-bagged Jack of Poetry:

“Demon sire of little machine-banging pricks!
The cleaver of skulls is sharp;
Soggy sings the birth-giver’s parcel.
The Trickster’s daughter’s icy grip awaits
The neglector of unruly offspring.”

Then he would stagger forward slightly, creating the illusion of advancing for battle, frightening the bejesus out of the man and his little molesters. Hightailing it out of there, they wouldn’t be around to see the bottle inadvertently slip from Björn’s grip, crashing tragically to the floor, and provoking him into unleashing a storm of berserker rage upon the countertop that he had hitherto been using for balance.


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