Fever

It had come by surprise. The 'excuse me ladies'. Turning around to see the pudgy student. Knapsack slung over his shoulder, eyes on the ground like an insecure thirteen year old, standing in the corner of the gym at his first school dance. The swipe of dirt, he calls a moustache, shadowing his upper lip. The gut hanging over his beige slacks. Peering out from under the collored lacoste shirt. The pubic hairs of his paunch shameless, and repulsively in view.
"I'm looking for a date," the vibrating, sausage fingers reaching into his pocket, pulling out the black leather wallet.
"I have money...."
She and I , just stare at each other in this harrowing stupor. Taking a minute to realize what he actually,  just asked. This silent monologue between us. Words spoken with facial expressions and muted body language. One arrogant nod, and it's set in motion. The wheels of the crazy train screeching against it's tracks. She wrapping her arm around him, leaning in with an enticing smile. Sweet giggles peppered with manipulation, as she directs the conversation. This butter ball of a man, soaking up the insincere flattery. Like a twelve year old pervert, he eyeballs her chest. The eyes wide and hungry. The wet, lapping tongue gliding over his top lip. Like a dog begging at the dinner table. Pathetic.
 Awkwardly running his chubby, shaking hand over her hip. I can see that he's holding back with all his pitiful strength. The blood pumping sex running through his eager veins. Each touch lashes against this ferocious heat in my chest. Pulling at my hatred. This never ending cycle of molesting eyes. Hands. Grease. Sweat. Salty, drooling poison. The bulge in his pants, twitching and pumping. Sick. Sick. Sick.
My head is spinning with a dark, vengeful hysteria. Everything that makes me up into Angie, is visualizing myself tearing him up into little bloody pieces, and spitting on his waste. You vile piece of shit.
 This rage was not intended for him, but it's too late. He made himself a target the moment he crossed that street. The second those words left his mouth, I knew it. Agreed with it, and gave it life. Feeding the wild beast. Little Shop of Horrors coming alive in my black pit of a gut, the cannibal plant springing roots in my fleshy insides. Feed me. Feed me. Feed me.
 Handing over my eyes and thoughts to a murderous vendetta. Ruthless vindication. I could have been standing in front of the sweetest man in the world, or Paul Bernardo. It didn't matter. The sickness of my perception, left all men in the exact same rotting box. Abusers. Predators. Sexual deviants. Molesters. Naturally drawn to perversion and intimidating violence. The voices of my mind shouting, 'It's my turn to hunt'. MY TURN asshole, my fucking turn.
A victimless crime, they said. He's not even human. He's a mass of bulging penis and sickly, wet desires. A waste of life, a single cell containing nothing but obscene fantasies and pornographic obsessions.  This young, university student, with his unkempt greasy hair, and soiled clothes, was going to taste my fever. Naive or not. The stinking ball of tar was rolling, and I was locked down in psychotic delirium. I don't know where the real Angie went that night. Locked away somewhere inside, in the dark, tearing at herself. With each step towards his apartment, she fell deeper into the pits of my internal lock down. Deranged Angie, tucking her into bed, kissing her forehead with black tarnished lips.
You sleep baby, I'll take over from here.
No ones going to hurt you.
Not anymore.