Poor Mojo's Two Minute Hate

I’d turn myself in if they’d take me, but, according to my lawyers, I have yet to break a law. Yet it was my action that caused all this mess. I should be put to trial – crimes against humanity – and forced to walk the crossroads till I find repentance.

It began several years ago when a bicycle-riding 12 year old almost ran over a middle-aged woman on 6th and Market. “Watch out, kid!” I yelled at him.

“Fuck you, bitch,” he yelled back. Then more, then more.

I kept walking, but he swerved back my way, taunting me then hocking a lugubrious wad of saliva in my direction. The bulbous loogie hung in the air for a brief second before landing on my back, hating its way through my brand new shirt I had bought at the Gap.

I chased the boy, ready to hate him with more words – club words that would make him bruise. I even called a cop. The peace officer hated the boy with a precise swat to the Achilles tendon with the old nightstick on their way to the squad car.