orley Munson stared at himself
in the mirror that hung over his bedroom bureau (the room had once belonged to his parents) and frowned at what he saw. He had never worried much about his physical appearance but the fact that he was meeting a pretty young waitress at the local cinema made him feel very inadequate.
Morley Munson did not, however, feel compelled to comb his hair differently or look through his closet for a shirt that favoured his body type. No. Instead, his own shortcomings whipped him into a murderous furor — causing him to break a few fragile knick-knacks in the hallway (just for the joy of breaking them).
Morley Munson found himself outside after a few more minutes, trying desperately to calm himself. His rage-filled eyes landed
on a bird that was wandering peacefully in
the grass of his side lawn. Slowly Morley Munson picked up a brick, moving with precision and delicacy so as not to disturb the red-breasted robin. He moved like a cat (on the prowl), inching his way across the overgrown patch of green. The bird took a few defensive steps, moving this way and that to keep some distance between itself and the approaching figure. Too late.
Morley Munson was not very athletic (he’d never been good at sports) nor was he young and vibrant any more, but he’d always had a way with weapons or things that could kill, and the brick felt natural and right in his hand. His throw was true and quick, and the bird was caught squarely by the projectile and crushed beneath it. It didn’t die immediately, though, fluttering beneath the weight of the dried clay.
Morley Munson moved to the brick and placed his weight down on it. Firmly and with great pleasure.
