by Markus Hällgren
One motherfucker. Grey-man takes his keys from his right pocket and moves them to his left hand. His mind is set on one thing only. Two motherfuckers. The man with grey hair on his temples takes two steps forward. The sound of the world fades. He does not notice the crunch of the gravel on the asphalt as he moves. No more conversations between acquaintances. No more children asking for candy. No more sound of cars entering or exiting the parking lot. He no longer notices the biting wind that reddened his nose and filled it with snot a few minutes ago. His gaze is locked onto something. Three motherfuckers. Another step. No sound. No wind. Keys in hand. All Grey-man can see is the black car with the running engine and the man inside. The man staring at his phone in the comfort of the car´s heat. Outside his car, ‘Phone-man’ is destroying the world with pollution parked in the path of pedestrians. Four motherfuckers. Grey-man moves the keys in his hand ever so slightly so that the tip protrudes between the fingers of his fist. He leans towards the car. Five motherfuckers. The keys touch the shiny black paint job. Another step followed by a silent crunch. Step silent crunch. Step silent crunch. The key leaves a long silvery mark on the black paint. Six motherfuckers. Phone-man looks up. Bewildered. Mouth opens. Seven motherfuckers. Phone-man screams something that grey-man does not hear. There’s a step followed by a silent crunch. Eight motherfuckers. Phone-man reaches for the door handle with his left hand. His body starts to turn. The door opens. Nine motherfuckers. Phone-man’s left foot touches the gravel on the asphalt. Ten motherfuckers. The world changes pace. Grey-man takes a quick step back. He throws his weight at the open car door. The man with the now broken leg is silent, but his eyes widen as the synapses begin to connect. For good measure, Grey-man lets go of the door ever so slightly to throw his weight at it again. Phone-man opens his mouth and screams as the door bites into his severed lower leg. Grey-man still does not hear. Eleven motherfuckers. The world is back to normal. The children are first to look. Then, the mothers. Soon, the chit-chatting people. The wind starts to bite into Grey-man’s skin. Phone-man screams in the comfort of his car. Grey-man walks off with a grin. He’s had enough. No more watching men sitting in their cars with their engines running. No more.