The Barrel of the Gun

At age fifteen, I had two good guy friends I spent a lot of free time with. I was new to friendship with guys however as before that age, none had ever given me a second glance. Matt was one of the guys, and we dated for a brief time. I adored him, he was so easy-going and so sarcastic, we were perfect for each other. His best friend Mark was the other guy, quirky and strange at times, a slight contrast to Matt's easy-going nature. They were best friends though, so usually where Matt went, so did Mark, therefore the three of us were together quite a bit. One day I ended up at Mark's parent's house alone with him, though the exact reason has been lost to me. His parents had a normal mid-sized family home, but he, like myself, had a room in the basement. If his fairly strict parents had been home, I assumed I wouldn't have been allowed to follow him down the set of rather old wooden steps. In the soft light of the one bare ceiling bulb, I let myself gaze around inquisitively, as I did in any new environment. It had that slightly musty feeling that most basements have, and was carpeted in a shaggy outdated blue shade. The ceiling was unfinished, with all the support beams visible and serving as storage to various odds and ends. It was also home to quite a few cobwebs, giving the appearance that Mark was left to tend the housekeeping of his own space. The main area at the foot of the stairs looked to be used as a home for forgotten and obsolete household items. As I idly stared at a few wispy webs clinging to a neglected lampshade, Mark reached up to an exposed beam and dislodged a long slender object. It took me about half a second to recognize that the object he was retrieving was a rifle.

I had never actually seen any kind of firearm up close before, so a fair measure of shock and awe rushed through me with a tingling chill. That tingle instantly became a silent scream of protest, as Mark raised the rifle, aiming its single barrel directly at my head. He stood a mere three feet from me, an arm cradling the polished wooden stock and finger on the trigger, appearing like he might actually know what he was doing. I didn't move, and didn't make a sound, concealing my increased nervousness. I'm not sure if it was my stubborn nature, but it seemed incredibly important to me to keep my cool. It was difficult. I had never ever been comfortable thinking about guns, and now I had one targeting me.
"Do you think it's loaded?" was Mark's question for me, his stance unwavering.
At those daring words, anger raced through me like fire over dry timber. I narrowed my eyes at him, staring right over the grey steel tube and into his ice blue eyes. I was determined not to play whatever game he was trying to start.
"No," I bluffed, sounding a lot more sure than I actually was.
The hard truth was I didn't really know him. I had no way of knowing if he'd be dumb enough to pull down a loaded weapon and aim it at me point blank. It was a rather bad time to come to that realization I guess.
Then just as suddenly as he had drawn the gun on me, he swung the barrel down to point harmlessly at the carpet covered cement. His face radiated his disappointment. So my first instinct had been right and he was looking for a reaction. I was glad to disappoint him. I was also enraged at being put in that position. I suppose I could have taken that moment to berate him for his stupidity and bold attempt to scare me. Instead, I decided to go with the 'revenge is a dish best served cold' philosophy.

I delivered my cold dish about a week later. I waited until I was precisely sure that Mark had forgotten about our little basement encounter, and with Matt around to witness my actions, I set my simple plan in motion. The three of us were just casually hanging out, on route to the corner store for junk food.
"Hey Mark, lift up your arms for a sec," was my seemingly innocent request to him.
He gave it little to no thought, and obligingly raised his arms above his head. In that same moment, I pulled back my arm, fist clenched tightly, and sucker-punched him with all my fifteen year old girl strength squarely in the gut. The audible whoosh as some air was forced out of his lungs on impact, was extremely satisfying.
Needless to say, as Mark wrapped his arms around his sore gut, both boys were more than a little stunned by my actions. Poor Matt had no clue, I had never told him about the rifle incident. That didn't stop him from grinning at such a bold move by his girlfriend. He actually seemed impressed.
"whaa wha what was THAT for??" Mark stuttered indignantly, a scowl forming on his reddened face.
"For being stupid" I told him, glaring right back. He might have got it, he might have not, but I never felt the need to offer further explanation.

What Motivates Insanity?

Here is my very loaded question tonight. What motivates insanity? What sort of mental abnormality has to be present for someone to do those certain things that the majority of the population would never consider? The dictionary defines insane as mentally deranged, crazy, of unsound mind. That is not helpful to me, as I am sure there is no way to tell an insane person from a sane one, before the insane one acts out. It is truly mind boggling. There are basic principles engraved in my head, the difference between good and evil, right and wrong, and the ability to act based on these principles. I didn't need a belief in any one God or religion to bestow such a moral compass, I simply had to look into my own heart, and listen to it. It is when I look outward, at the chaos of the world, that I tend to get a little lost. I feel helpless when I hear about senseless murders, beaten children, people raped and ravaged.

It's one thing to pass moral judgement upon those who have committed these horrific acts, but what about those who are still in the process, those who are still planning? I've heard it said that the world needs evil, so that we can in turn recognize the good. That still doesn't explain why certain people are compelled to act evil in the first place. I suppose if you're religious, its easy enough to pass off as 'the hand of the devil', but in my opinion, that scenario has a counter of an Omnipotent being such as God, who should be able to lead people away from the path of the devil. So, from my point of view, you can believe that God sits back and lets people get used by the devil, to hurt, kill, maim and destroy, simply to prove the existence of good by use of evil. Or, borrow my train of thought. What if there is something fundamentally lacking from the brain of someone predisposed to become evil? Maybe those people cannot find it within themselves, the absolute knowledge of 'thou shalt not kill'. How about thou shalt not terrorize for fun, thou shall not willfully cause pain and suffering among other human beings. How can I figure this stuff out, when others cannot?

At one point, I thought that laws were in place to teach this sort of thing to those who were somehow incapable of figuring it out on their own, but I have since abandoned that theory. People are STILL doing horrible things, for any number of reasons. Innocent people are still getting murdered. Children are still getting beaten senselessly. People I love are being terrorized. Innocent kids have been left alone in fear. Its enough to make even the sanest person question all things. I will always have questions that don't have answers, but knowledge is infinite of course. Lets pretend, for just this late hour, that maybe a higher power DOES exist out there. "Excuse me, all knowing one? I get it. Evil exists, alive and well here on earth. I think everyone pretty much gets it. So, knowing that, can said evil somehow just take a week off? A day even? I promise I wont forget about it for even a second!"

The Real Story of the WalMart Slasher Guy

Mark started off as a normal 20-something year old, and was offered a great job at his local WalMart, as a greeter. He took his job extremely seriously, even as his friends usually cracked jokes about him. He was so impressive as a greeter, that he was quickly promoted to 'check-out guy'. He was very diligent in that role as well, impressing even the most hostile of customers with his efficiency. He was truly a rarity among WalMart employees.
Everything was going well on Halloween Night 2001. Mark had taken over a shift from an employee who wanted to attend a big Halloween party. The evening neared 8pm. There were quite a few customers running in and out, searching for last minute costumes or grabbing what was left of the candy for the trick-or-treaters.

Mark was working his till with his normal cheerfulness, when a haggard old woman appeared in his lane. He was not taken back by her appearance, as he had seen it all in his years of WalMart employment. She had a nasty look on her face, and her wild hair was only half tamed by a hot pink scrunchie. She had somehow managed to squeeze her rather large frame into a pair of purple spandex leggings, and completed the outfit with an XXL T-shirt sporting the phrase "You Know You Want Me". You have to give Mark credit for the ability to keep a straight face. He rang up her purchases with a kind smile on his face to contrast her scowling one. As she loaded her bags into her cart and started to leave the store, Mark noticed she had a box of Halloween candy resting in the bottom of her cart. He knew immediately he had not scanned it, therefore knowing she had not paid for it.

The idea of someone taking advantage of his place of work filled him with a bit of a rage he had yet to experience, and decided he could not stand idly by and watch her leave with stolen merchandise.
"Excuse me, Ma'am!" he called to Ms Purple Spandex Lady.
She didn't turn around, instead began to waddle faster.
"Wait, you did not pay for that candy!" Mark yelled futilely, as she neared the doors.
Determinedly, he locked down his till and gave chase. As he reached the parking lot and looked around the mostly empty spaces, he spied an empty cart in the middle of a nearby parking spot. He didn't think she could have driven away so rapidly, and continued to look for any sign of movement. Suddenly an engine gunned to his left, and he saw a flash of headlights as he turned to look. Unfortunately for Mark, Ms Spandex was not only fast for her large size, she was driving a rather big Xterra, and had it aimed right for him!

There was nothing he could do, his body just refused to react fast enough as that beastly vehicle closed the small gap between them. As he was hit full-force, he heard a ghastly cackle from a voice that yelled "And I didn't return my cart either!!!"

That was not the end for Mark however. Every Halloween, he stalks different WalMart stores, all over the world. He preys on those who don't pay for all their purchases, those who don't return their carts, and he has a special hatred for scrunchies and spandex. So beware this Halloween, if you need to make a last minute purchase, please shop with care. He is watching!