Thomas Wictor

For the third night in a row, my terrified Mexican neighbors living in the shadows are firing off the largest skyrockets I’ve ever heard. They sound like artillery shells. After about six hours of it, I went outside at around 1:00 a.m. and screamed, “The next person who shoots off a skyrocket, I’m going to burn down your house!” The skyrockets stopped, but tonight they’re exploding again. However, I’ve been given a message to chill out.

When you have post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), it’s very easy to give in to murderous rage. My neighbors are all obese young drunks, with obese young girlfriends and obese children. These are people who want to spend their lives in the gutter. They have no ambition or aspirations. All they want to do is shoot off skyrockets, let their dogs bark day and night, and drive around in cars with deafening mufflers and sound systems.

Such acts of aggression arise from self-awareness: All my neighbors know that they’re total losers. Will they change their behavior?

No.

But they will drink more, put on more weight, have more children who they can’t support, and make life intolerable for those of us who aren’t swine.

Earlier I was taking care of my cats. Suddenly there was a gigantic explosion in the air, and my cats ran off to hide. See, now they feel insecure in their own home. The house is ruined for them. I went outside and was going to go down the street and put on the most frightening show any of these fat, young, stupid, mush-mouthed, ignorant, procreant laborers had even seen.

Something stopped me. Common sense? I don’t know.

It hasn’t been a good day. Some depraved Jew-hater on Twitter said that Zionists must be eradicated. In response I sent him a message:

“Come eradicate me. I use hollow-point bullets in my .357 magnum.”

The guy has his Twitter account linked to his Facebook account, so an Israeli sent me a photo of the person. It’s without question the most miserably sad face I’ve ever seen. I posted it, along with the comment that this depraved Jew-hater is terminally unhappy. About three minutes later, I got this.

On Twitter it’s fine to post photos of butchered children.

Posting a photo of a guy looking suicidal and calling him a depraved Jew-hater after he says that Jews must be wiped out? That violates Twitter’s terms of use. I had to delete the tweet with the guy’s picture in order for my account to be unlocked.

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin

—Wilfred Owen

I’m keeping the photo. If you use Twitter, I’ll DM it to you. It’s a perfect illustration of the torment that evildoers feel. I’ve known several unfathomably evil people. They were all tormented. Did they stop committing evil?

No.

This Jew-hating Twitter-and-Facebook devil will continue to hate, and then one day he’ll kill himself.

So what? The world will be a much better place without him. Imagine that being your epitaph: “Here I lie rotting in the ground. My death improved the planet.”

I have no sympathy for tormented evildoers. For three days now, I’ve wanted to go on a shooting spree, but I’ve refrained. My city is run by idiots who chased all the highest corporate taxpayers away by demanding even higher taxes. Now we have exactly two Los Angeles Country Sheriff’s Department patrol cars to keep track of 41,000 citizens. Since California redefined attempted murder as a nonviolent crime so that our prisons could be emptied, we’ve had several mass shootings, decapitations, dismembered corpses found, murder-suicides of entire extended families…

Each skyrocket exploding over my head takes me back to Regent’s Park in London, July 20, 1982.

My brother Paul and I were close enough to feel the pressure wave of the IRA nail bomb. We turned left instead of right, and we lived.

The issue with PTSD is that the flashbacks get worse the more you’re exposed to whatever is causing them. Three solid days of skyrockets has left me in a state of near-collapse. Today the ugly, dumb, coarse, mediocre creatures down the street ignited the biggest one yet. It sounded like that IRA bomb.

It was the last straw. I left my house and began striding toward the humanoids. The males were all chest-bumping each other over the successful explosion, and the females with their massive rumps were corralling the screaming spawn and fleeing dogs. My plan was to march down there and begin yelling in their faces that they’d just fired their last skyrocket, and if they didn’t believe me, they should launch one more and see what would happen.

Then I stopped. I can’t tell you why. Tim came out of his house; he knows how angry this all makes me, and he’s worried that I’ll have Mexican gangbangers after me along with the Islamic State. To mollify my brother, I asked him to get me the bag that I used to collect all the particles from exploded skyrockets. He did, and I went over our three properties, picking up cardboard, paper, and plastic.

Here’s one of the pieces.

As I was about to put it in the bag, I turned it over and stopped in my tracks. All the rage fell away. I gave Tim the fragments, except for this one. It’s a message from Someone with a great sense of humor. The message is for me to settle down.

Here’s the other side of the piece of paper from an illegal exploding Mexican skyrocket.

Those are scorch marks. It’s not part of a Victorian photo of a nude woman, but that’s exactly what it looks like. See the breast, right arm, and navel? What are the odds that an exploding skyrocket would create a vintage naughty postcard, it would land in my yard, and I’d find it?

The cure for PTSD is weirdness. At it is least for me.