-Stains and Smudges-

Zane Stillman threw open the driver’s side door of his 2004 Acura MDX. Growling curses, he sat his 300-pound frame onto the worn-down leather of its driver’s seat.

“MOTHER F-

As soon as he slammed the door behind him, he had to stop a punch he threw at the steering wheel. Straining, he held back a scream that would’ve been an incoherent expletive filled roar.

His sore body tensed, he rocked back and forth in the driver’s seat; his paint covered hands twisted into trembling, animalistic claws.

Zane Stillman had always had an issue with his temper, but this was the closest he’d ever come to crossing the thin, invisible line that separated the law-abiding citizen from the blood thirsty convict.

His temper, now closer to a burning rage, had become something he could feel lashing about in his stomach. Each of its phantasmic movements pulled on the tired muscles of his long limbs, hoping to make them lash out at the cruel world and anyone else that got in his way.

Worst of all, it spoke to him.

-son of a bitch fired us and you up and shook his hand what the fuck is wrong with you you fucking pussy mother fucker get back there and-

He bit down on his lower lip to hold back another roar.

“Why are you so angry?” he asked himself after a time. His voice trembling with impotent rage.

Why? He thought.

“BECAUSE I HATE MY FUCKING LIFE!” he boomed.

Oh, God above how true that was.

There he was. Bald. Thirty years old. A virgin. Still living with his parents. A four-time college dropout somehow more lost and miserable than he’d been as an outcasted, suicidal teenager bumbling his way through high school.

To say this anger had just come up from nowhere would be the lie to end all lies.

It was a thing that had been growing in his stomach ever since he became self-aware enough to notice that some kids on the playground had more friends than he did. It had matured in the hellhole meat grinder called high school and positively blossomed in the ten years spent working in lowly retail and warehousing positions.

-the truth is that you hate those fuckers and youre goddamn right too how dare they be blessed with their gifts while youre left with nothing but your cock in your ha-

This thought made him throw another punch at the driver’s side door.

He’d barely stopped it.

It had been this same rage, now lashing in his guts like a rampaging serpent, that made him try to break out of the retail and warehousing hellscape and get into any other industry.

Hotel cleaner. Dishwasher. Gas station attendant. Janitor. Car washer attendant. Construction laborer. Landscaper. Lawn mower. Dog catcher. Gym cleaner. Movie Theater cashier.

He’d sent applications, made calls, and made it a point to only apply to positions that had the magic words entry level attached.

Each one amounted to the same thing.

“Sorry,” the countless rejection emails began. “But we’re moving ahead with a different candidate -you rotten waste of space prick- thank you for your interest in…”

All that changed when he received a call from Clark Gable, a manager from College Bros Painters. It seemed like a blessing at the time. A new industry with new skills to learn. He’d get out of Costco’s grey and white interior and get paid to be in the sun. Like any other opportunity, it had the pristine allure of leading to greener pastors.

Worst of all, it brought hope that his life might change.

But, like so many other things in his skid mark joke of a life, it all went to shit.

The first big issue was that painting is hard.

-really fucking hard-

Not only did it require focus, a steady hand, and, like so many other things in life, time to learn its many nuances. It also involved working at strange angles while balancing on ladders and being over ten feet in the air. The thought of it made him sweat even more.

Then, there was the terrain to consider.

Giant “bushes”. Slick mud. Plants and gardens next to or right under the spot he needed to paint. The bush branches stabbed and jabbed. The mud made finding the right spot to put the ladder down harder, which took more time. The gardens/plants/lawn fixtures got in the damn way, and God save you if wet paint dripped and landed on something.

The next obstacle were the bugs.

Hornets, spiders, gnats, flies, bees, and other things he couldn’t name. They bit. They stung. They buzzed past his ears or landed on him right as he was trying to focus on accurately applying paint. Outside was their domain and good lord did they enforce that fact.

He’d tolerated those things. Hell, he made it through three Toys “R” Us peak seasons for crying out loud.

But what pushed him to this insanity was Clark Gable.

It wasn’t enough that the young prick was arrogant as hell and dumb as shit when it came to managing people. He also set unrealistic expectations and punished Zane for not meeting them.

“I need this entire wall painted in 30 minutes,” he said to Zane on his first day. “We just need you to do it fast and clean. Easy.”

That was the first time he’d handled a paintbrush in his entire life. He’d made that pretty clear over the hiring process. Yet, this Gable expected things done quick and perfect after one explanation?

-cocky prick get back there and give the bastard a lesson in Jeet Kun-

He pulled out his phone then, saw that he’d only been in his car for about three minutes, and then scrolled through old emails to the job application.

“Looking for entry level summer painter…” he read. “Entry level.”

His left eye twitched.

-theyre back there now GABLE and his annoying little pal go get them go get them go get th-

Again, those things he could tolerate.

What got his anger going was that Gable was everything Zane wished he could be.

Young -white-. Ambitious -intelligent-. Athletic -pussy magnet-.

Clark Gable was the latest in a long line of younger men that Zane had worked under. Each of them had the golden ticket crammed up their annoying asses from jump.

They had the smarts, the looks, and talent to climb high. They’d make their friends. They’d pop out more children. Write their books. Make so much money that they’d be wiping their golden asses with hundred-dollar bills.

But him?

-nothing but menial labor positions failed dreams so much regret that you may as well just put a gun in your mouth and-

A gun?

Clark Gable and his lucky little shit partner ought to be kissing Old Missy’s muddied ground and thanking God that he didn’t have one.

It was bullshit.

“But that was the old game, wasn’t it?” he growled. “Get two no mark rookies that didn’t know their asses from holes in the ground. Hire them on, give them tools they’d never seen or used before, thirty feet of wall, and twenty minutes to prep, prime, and paint it all in one go. All of this was after one explanation and one demonstration.”

No attention was given to the giant bushes, hornets, and all the other obstacles in the way.

One of the them would magically “fall in” to the role, probably fucking up along the way. But in the end, because of that one’s -youth- attitude, -smarts- guile, and – vibes- persistence, he would be given the golden medal.

Job recommendations. High fives. Offers to hang out after work. Positive affirmation. Pretty much everything shy of –blowjobs and lap dances- handing the lucky little shit the world on a silver platter.

-that was the one that swam into the whores spread le-

The other one?

The one that needed help? The one that took longer? The one that tried to make as few mistakes as possible? Asked questions? Wasn’t at all shy about the fact that he had no experience in the field?

“Who cares. Fuck ‘em!” he hissed.

That was the world at large.

Swimmers and sinkers. Winners and losers. Smarties and idiot fuck ups.

-Stains and Smudges-

What decided the difference between these two classes?

It wasn’t hard work, that much was clear. He left the worksite everyday sweating and hurting. His clothes usually ripped and covered in paint. He held up both hands in front of his face. They’d both been stained blue after repeated use of the wash rag and garden hose. Everything he touched in his car had been stained with blue smears.

Sniffing, he noticed his car had even begun to have the nose burning, chemical smell of paint.

-thats an improvement at leas-

Not that “Mr.” Gabel acknowledged it, but he had employed the few techniques taught to him. Listened to instructions. Showed up on time every day and never whined of his aching back or endless list of frustrations. But apparently, it wasn’t enough.

-it doesnt fucking matter he still shit canned our sorry as-

What made the difference were the -stupid bullshit- “intangibles”; factors out of his control that his autistic mind couldn’t quantify.

“Vibes”. “Confidence”. “Personality”.

The thought made his left eye twitch.

-you were a fuckup weirdo kid no friends thirty years old and never dated-

Movement in the rearview mirror pulled him out of his head.

Sure enough, there was a woman walking her dog toward him on the cull-da-sac’s sidewalk. The sight of her made Zane Stillman’s heart fall.

She was blonde. She was tall. And God above was she gorgeous.

-another cunt that wouldnt piss on our corpse to put out a fire she would piss on him though him and all the other lucky fuckers like him youre noth-

His right hand surged toward his door again.

It connected.

The car was still shaking as he threw his door open and swiveled in the driver’s seat. His paint covered, steel-toed boots hit the cull-da-sac’s finely paved over road so hard and fast that he felt the tremor in his jaw.

-go back there and give that annoying little fucker a piece of your-

Both his arms were poised and ready to push him out of the car.

Almost outside of himself, he saw what would happen.

He would leap out of the car. Stomp and clomp his way to the old woman’s backyard. And then he would teach the annoying -blessed- bastard what he’d learned down in sunny Florida.

The one thing Zane had to be proud of in his life was the time he spent learning Jeet-Kun-Do. He’d practiced at a dojo down in sweet, sunny Florida what felt like a lifetime ago. He was only a yellow belt when he moved back to Indy. But even then, he was one of the best students in the class.

And he never stopped practicing.

Jab. Hook. Cross. Lethal kicks that he forgot the names of. Combinations used to lay a man out in the time it took him to blink. One of the things he’d been praised for during his training was the speed of his hands.

This gift never left him.

Granted, he’d never sparred someone else. Hell, he’d never even hit anyone since he’d learned the proper way to.

-why not start now whats the point of getting dangerous if you never hurt anyone-

Like usual, he was bigger than Clark Gable and his precious protégé, probably over a hundred pounds heavier too. He knew he could bring a steel-toed boot to the side of Clark Gable’s -chosen- head. If not on the temple, then perhaps on his golden, cleft chin.

-certainly on the neck-

It wouldn’t be a spinning kick either. Nothing so risky. At 6’3, Zane could throw a soccer kick so high that the tips of his toes were in front of his nose. The kick was powerful, accurate, and fast.

-high enough for that lucky little shit bastard and his golden blessed bro-

If his martial arts weren’t enough, then he had his trusty box cutter in the center consol.

He looked back over his shoulder. The center consol was wide open.

Had it been when I sat down?

Laying in the center of the coin covered, clutter strewn cubby holder was his old box cutter from his abandoned retail days. It was long, silver, and not at all like the “retard proof” ones he’d been given at Target. This one was the type that clicked into place, leaving the full length of its razor blade sticking out without a thumb to support it.

-you could wrap your hand around the thing and stab plunge it into-

Ironically, he’d recently changed the blade as well.

He turned forward and looked out onto the well-manicured lawn he sat in front of. Curious, he dared a glance at the windows of the house.

No one was looking at him.

-good now go back there and-

Maybe he would try to talk to them both. Handle it nice, smooth, and proper. Give Mr. Gable a piece of his mind. But -you wish- it would escalate.

-jab hook cross kick until theyre both-

From nowhere, images flashed in his head.

He saw himself standing over Clark Gable’s limp body; the young fucker’s face a twisted ruin of what it had been. He had warm blood staining his arms up to the elbows. Then, he saw himself in a prison jumpsuit after being convicted of either murder or attempted murder.

That made him pause.

Inside, he felt the whipping snake stop and reel back as if it had detected a natural predator nearby.

Perhaps a stolid wolverine, or a diving eagle.

From his peripheral, he eyed the tall blonde again. She was further up the sidewalk now. She’d probably pass him in about a minute or more.

-take the damn bit-

He looked away after giving her a nod and a wave.

Thinking about women then would’ve signed his death warrant.

More memories came to him then. Particularly all the stories he saw on the news. Men killing each other in bar parking lots over wounded pride. Teenagers murdering each other in malls over shoes or shooting each other over street corners. Most presciently to himself, all the mass shootings perpetrated by men that may as well been his brothers by all but blood.

Too many stories of lives thrown into Hell in seconds.

Following that was a cavalcade of black and white smiling pictures seen on too many TV screens, social media posts, and billboards to recall. The people on the other side of the violence that would never smile or do anything ever again. Young. Old. Men. Women. Each of them was probably thinking about what they’d do the next day or some other thing.

“But then I come in…” he said.

Among them, he saw Clark Gable’s young face as a monochrome, smiling ghost.

How many other people would be hurt by his passing?

This was a new voice.

It scared him.

The snake had stopped its thrashing and hissing altogether. In its place was a chill that was equal parts unnerving and soothing.

It would leave me. He thought. The second I threw the first punch. The voice would stop; the snake would flee. When it did… then what? Piss myself in fear? Run back for the car and wait for the cops to come? If my life is a mess now, then how bad would it be if I…

-but ill be back-

He knew that better than anything.

If not in the backyard, then certainly on the drive home. If not then, then when he was at the gym the next day. Maybe this little interval will come up when he’s taking a test in some class months from now. Perhaps one night ten years from now when he was lying in bed at 2 am, starring at the ceiling, most likely with his dick in his hand.

He knew what it would say to him then.

-coward pussy you let that go you fucking wuss you goddamn doormat-

The chill in his stomach worked its way up his throat. He wanted to puke. Perhaps even cry.

He sat that way for a moment. Then two.

By the time the woman walking her dog rounded the cull-da-sac, Zane Stillman made his choice.

He drove home that night wishing he was a dumber man.