I have violent tendencies about as often as I unearth the toilet bowl cleaner to fumigate the bathroom and, haphazardly, half of my body.
But, as my day had encompassed an expensive shower, a motorcycle cuff, an abduction accusation, a mud-filled bottle blow to the head, a death-grip from a five-year-old, and a Stalin push-cart driver, I felt as affable as Omar al-Bashir.
I swamped into my bus seat and summarily submerged into sleep. I was in a sparkling sleep and a pleasing mood paralleling if God declared I wouldn't grow armpit hair for the rest of my life.
An hour later I awoke, tired as a sloshed toad and as stupefied as if I had blacked-out, passed-out, and woken in a neighbor's front yard arrayed over branches. I soon apprehended I had awoken because the man behind me was leaning forward, balancing his arms on my headrest as well as on my head. I inclined forward and fluttered my head to signify that I was wakeful and as vigilant as Batman. The man as touchy as a male hooker named Lenda Hand abolished his arms. I fell asleep again to awake to Lenda Hand's arms on my head. Again. I crawled my chair forward. His arms absconded.
A tricep-tickle roused me. Lenda Hand's toenails titillated my arm. I jabbed the armrest and his foot flowed back to his own seat. I assembled with my arms crossed like a two-year-old in timeout. Lenda Hand's leg reappeared, running forward until fully extended. I partially lifted the armrest. His leg dethroned, he drilled his knees into the back of my seat. I mentally materialized a metal fist in my seat's rear. I reclined the seat, resolving that if he persisted in boring into my back, I would consider it a back massage. Lenda Hand returned his leg. I two-hand-hurled the armrest utterly up like I was competing in a shotput contest. I seat-rotated, snarled, "Please respect my space. Do not touch me," and pointed at him for special effect. Lenda Hand looked as confused as if I had just shot cow excrement into his eye.
I'm about as well-equipped in the breast region as a five-year-old boy. When I awoke later to his hand cupping my left breast, I presumed he must be pursuing for jewels or passionate for a pillow.
I imagined airlifting him over my head, flinging his fully-levitated body into the ground, and grabbing and twisting his balls, tittie-twist style.
I hummingbird-speed seat shifted, and said, eyes narrowed, "I will head-butt you."
The next morning the bus broke for breakfast. Lenda Hand shuffled from his seat and down the bus aisle. One of his legs didn't bend. He was physically handicapped. I had threatened a physically handicapped man. Twice. Once with a head-butt.
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