The Bank

I went to the bank today.

As I was leaving a dodge ram SRT10 careened into a handicapped spot. A large man in his late twenties or early thirties wearing a black affliction shirt, jeans and a douche bag haircut hopped out spryly and nearly bumped into me on his important path inside the bank.

He had to have been from new york or boca raton. He had a look of entitlement about him indicating he had never worked a day in his life and cheated his way through school; however, somehow he was built like a lumberjack and had a nice truck. He had big aviator sunglasses and true religion jeans. (My grandmother was involuntarily and vexingly handicapped).

I asked him if he was handicapped.

"Do I look it?" he replied dismissively as continued on in a limber stride.

I was awestruck. I held the repulsive vile rage in and modestly asked him "Do you want to be?"

He looked back questioningly to find that I had not moved from in front of his truck or taken my eyes off him. He made his transactions and felt my thousand yard stare on his back for the next ten minutes.

Exiting the bank he healthily strode past me limp-free into as I glared awesricken at his brazenness. The man tucked himself neatly into his truck and decided he was safe. I still had not moved or blinked.

As I walked away, he had a swell of pride. He rolled his window down and said “What?”

This is exactly what I wanted.

Now I’m not the type to start fights. Not only do they lead nowhere, but 99% of people do not expect or know what to do in an altercation unless they have been drinking or they are with their boys. Especially in Boca.

This could go two ways from here. I could tell him I wanted to rip the jugular vein out of his neck and drink from it like a keg in the parking lot. Perhaps I would tear his jaw off, grind it up with a protein shake and enjoy it after a nice workout. Maybe I’d wear his scalp like a hat. I had a few ideas. OR perhaps I could be the bigger man and gracefully help him realize his flaw. I chose the high road.

I saw the look in his Prada-shaded eyes as I stuck 60% of my body in his open passenger side window and calmly asked him to repeat the question. Perhaps he had not anticipated this. Apparently no one had ever dare disagree with this large, spoiled young man. He fumbled slightly and hit the lock button on his door.

Laugh. (Inside my head.)

The 6 foot tall 200 pounder looked at me, bewildered a 5’7” 160 pound punk ass would cross him and his anger grew. He became flustered as I calmly asked him again if he was handicapped. He replied with defensive answers like are you a manager here? Are you a cop? What the fuck, bro? I responded no. He was still seated in his truck and I had not flinched.

I asked him to really think about what he is doing and if this was even an argument. He told me to “mind my fucking business.” I prodded more, just to see how much of a pussy this guy was. I gave him a shit eating grin and said finally “Think about what you’re doing right now.” He cursed as he rolled up his window and peeled off, pointing at me. I had not intended to start a fight here; in fact I knew this man would not do a thing no matter how hard I pressed. Hopefully he got the message. I’m sure he realized his douchebaggery 5 minutes down the road and that’s one less douchebag for the day.

I win.