I am walking through the monster that is Dundrum Town Centre. I hate this place. I hate it so fucking much. It is too big, it has too much shit and it is much too filled with a terrible dressed up ugliness. People fucking dressing up to go shopping. Me, I'm late from work, back in my beige linen cut-offs, my green Denis the Menace, my inevitable Kayanos. My hair is at its most huge. Everyone, everyone that I see is wearing their Sunday best. No one but me is dressed like they just don't give a fuck. I say this not with pride but a certain shame.
Not as busy as the last time I was here, there's that. I am present shopping for the soon to be ten, oh jesus god how can she be so old making me so very much older, Riker. I buy her a book. I buy me a book. I'm a big Colfer fan. She digs Twenty. What can I tell you?
I take a minute to hang out right at the top of this cathedral of cac, to listen to the whisper of the walls as it echoes through the halls:
Worship yet, my chldren, worship yet. You now know that I am a wrathful God, but you have yet to feel the full ferocity of this wrath. Worship on, consume until you can consume no more. Perhaps you might still be saved from my righteous rage. But I fucking doubt it.
Looking down now through the travelator slashed floors, I am picking out assassination targets. Scumbag. Bang. Splat. Screams. Slow moving, highly painted, precisely pinned rich cunt. Bang. Splatcrunch. I've gone for the head shot, missed, but removed the jaw. More screams. The woman herself looks half-faced but merely resigned to more time with her favourite plastic surgeon. I look for a rugby type. But they're all in the pub, watching the rugby, so I return to my banal, rifleless life.
And move on. How I very wish I was not here. I spot a red-shirted, red baseball-hatted hander-outer of leaflets. He is targeting the girl kids, this kid, like some kind of Belgian Amish-hating Nazi, shoving red and white page after red and white page into their not even the rain small hands. I approach. I reach out my hand. It is easier, he dead-eyely reckons, to simply give this scruffy bouffanted buffon a leaflet than to attempt to avoid him. No eye contact will save him from a discussion as to just what he thinks he's doing, he is sure. But he is surely wrong. We preform a perfect exchange and I slow as I draw the leaflet into my eye line. It advertises High School Musical phones on the Meteor network. They cost €99. This is what he has been handing to my daughter, in my mind, over and over and over again. I stop. I turn on my heel. He has turned too, in search of fresh meat, and clocks me walking purposefully towards him. Our eyes meet for the first time. He sees in mine an uncontrollable zeal, a certain subtle insanity. I see in his a justifiable fear. I am there in three quick, long steps. The front of his t-shirt is a ball in my fist. I continue to walk, quickly, lengthily, purposefully pressing this boy ahead of me as he stumbles but maintains his balance and falls into the rhythm of my walk. But backwards he goes, on and on, my fist in his heart until eventually his back meets wall. I stop. I lean in. I breathe on him. And then at him. 'Stop. Stop what you're doing. There are other things that you can do. Walk the earth, work in Spar, end your own life. All these options are valid. But stop. Stop what you are doing now. It will soon to be too late for you, for them. Stop.'
I release him. He is released. I am released. And I continue to shop, for what else can I do?