I don't hate fat people. But last night, I killed a poor rotund bastard in my dreams.
The Fatman would loiter by my apartment stairwell, licking his chops as I hovered on the top stairs.
"Top of the morning to ya," he'd say.
"You're not fucking British," I'd tell The Fatman. He wasn't British, and his cockney Westchester accent really pissed me off.
But the little dog-and-pony show and cockney-isms continued, so I eventually I pulled out a handgun. "You're not fucking British," I stammered again waving the handgun at his head.
The Fatman had a splooge of wax encrusted in his puffy brown mane and these big soulful brown eyes, which drooped pathetically as he stared down the barrel of the handgun.
"I'm sorry. You're right. I'm not British," he started.
But I didn't let him finish. I just emptied the chamber into his hunks of lard.
The Fatman crumpled up in a ball on the floor. He looked like a beached whale.
But I didn't care. I just stepped over his body and went back into my apartment. Clearly, I had paid my debt to society, ridding the world of one more faux Briton.
All in a day's work.
I lit up a cigarette.