There are times when you think a volume of thoughts in milliseconds. Such as that moment when you're driving and realize you are about to have an accident, or when you are falling from a roof and your whole life passes before your eyes. The one fight I had in high school felt like that, when I finally decided to punch the guy, everything slowed way down.

In this moment, staring down something truly fearsome, it was the same, time slowed down. Do I run? Do I fight? Will I die? Is any of this real? I miss my wife. I hate the call center-why am I running towards it?

I remembered all that Brown had reminded me of. How I had started my life ready to make a difference in the world, and now I was so lost. My life could have been incredible. I could have helped so many people, but instead I allowed myself to drown in the mundane, in the everyday excrement of bills, commuting, mowing the lawn and TV.

Inside of me, rage finally built beyond what I had ever known. It was anger at myself, anger at my own cowardice, anger at my own laziness, anger at the nothing I had let myself become. Common sense and self preservation became like voices down a deep well, while something more primal transferred all my anger, all my frustration to these creatures that had been stalking me for the last five hours.

Without thinking I lifted the crowbar in my right hand and the hatchet in my left. I leapt at the creature on my left, bringing the crowbar squarely down on his head with such force I heard a dull crack and felt the skull split and the creature fell slack to the floor. The creature in the middle darted forward and tore at my thigh with his teeth. I started hacking at his spine his spine with the hatchet. Blood squirted from his neck and splattered my face. It yelped, then shook violently as it finally died and released my thigh. The third creature leapt at my head, snarling and snapping.

Somehow, I dropped to the ground as he flew over the top of me. The creature hit wall and was dazed for several seconds. I hobbled at him frantically and began to pummel him with the crowbar. It was a blur of blood, fur, torn skin and cursings and shrieks until the hatchet lay lodged in his throat and I was covered in cuts, bruises and bites. I felt like I had lost half a pint of blood.

It was quiet, except for my heavy breathing and the muzak system playing "September Morn" by Neil Diamond. Certainly not my idea of an appropriate soundtrack for battling Hell-hounds or whatever these things were. Someone has a really warped sense of humour or just bad taste in music...

More after the Labor Day holiday,

Part XVIII

Thanks for reading,

AC