Becoming Hubert

As a rule I don’t tend toward violence but Hubert, fat useless fuck that he is, brings out the devil in me so to speak. Every movement he makes is a stain on my existence but he is, at least, regular.

Tomorrow morning at precisely 7.27am in he will shuffle, pause briefly next to the dog food then grease-waddle his way along the aisle. For sin I shall play my designated role as the dutiful shopkeeper and attend to him with smiles and no small courtesy.

That is, of course, if I don’t stay out all night in the rain.

Ah, Hubert. It’s me not you. You are not the fault, merely the focus.

The softest target.

His features droop like unset putty and I am convinced that were I to strike him I would neither draw blood nor break bone, rather, I would smear him and only succeed in increasing the circumference of his already overstated head.

There is a violence in me that wants to try it out but the idea of a flattened, elongated Hubert-nose angling downwards from the first of his chins like a flaccid worm is too much for me to bear.

One could perhaps hope to be washed away in a storm such as this. Rinsed out into an oversized drain to blindly navigate the bowels of the city before being flung out to sea. Lady Luck, bitch that she is, would no doubt guarantee my survival just to allow me to be dashed upon the rocks by Mother Nature.

I picture myself slipping broken into the sea with only the sound of two whores laughing to drown out the waves.

Some day I will doubtless wash up salt-swollen on some distant shore.

My jellied mind blissfully unaware of the Hubert I have become.