There was a raw red anger in his face. He had some letters to open: he did this with his hand still trembling. The rage shot up in him and he punched himself in the head. The letters fell to the floor. He was strong, he was strong. He could crush a mountain if he wished. He'd fuck any cunt up who came near him. Fuck them all. Fuck the fucking arses of the lot of them. The swearwords ran off his tongue, and the frustration was still there, that there were no worse words, no words that'd strip the skin off them.
"What have you got going on down here, Mule?"
It was Trevor's voice. Fuck him. He'd like to spit poison at him. He'd like to reach into his face and tear off flesh like clay in his hands. Fuck him.
"Get out of my work space."
Trevor smirked at him and continued down the stairs. He was loving every second.
"This is a work space, is it?"
"Just don't provoke me, alright?"
"Or what? You'll go psycho? You need to lighten up, mate."
Words bubbled up and died inside his mouth. The burning ached: the anger was so bad he wanted to sob. He would come down at them from a great height, and see them run before him, the frightened sheep they really were. He would eat them, biting off the tips of their fingers and tearing open the sides of their necks and seeing the joyful blood come out. He would look into their eyes as the pupils shrank. He would listen to their pleas for mercy. He hated every one of them, the fucking cunts, the stupid mother-fucking cock-sucking cunts. He tried to focus all of this into a single glare that rested on Trevor as he walked around casually examining things.
"How do you cope with the loneliness down here? Wanking off to internet porn, I bet. You put up the fire wall, after all."
Trevor laughed softly and then suddenly looked at him. There was ice in the Mule's face, and beneath flames were distinguishable. He carried on walking, searching for something to interfere with. He put one foot up on a disconnected computer monitor, and said:
"It was only a prank, Mule."
"Fuck off!"
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