Normally, Davis didn't drink. Even though he was a Catholic, he didn't believe in it. At office parties there was spirits, but he stuck to tonic water or seven up. But Davis went to a bar and ordered a beer. It was bitter and stuck in his throat. He drank it as fast as possible. Then he ate a few nuts, crunching them. He began to get angry. Why should a man have to drink foul liquids fast? For two dollars, goddamit? Like when he was at the gym, doing bicep curls. He hated that damn machine. He always did them fast to get them over with and the damn machine beeped at him and the display said "slow down." Damn machine. Davis walked across the room, tossing peanuts in front of him. he knocked a beer over on a table.

"Jesus!" the guy whose beer it was said. "Watch where you're going, pal."

"Shut up, punk," Davis said. He looked the man in the eye. He was about as big as Davis, but he had a jacket on, and Davis couldn't see his arms.

"Asshole." The man said, sopping beer with his napkins.

"What did you say, punk?" Davis bit his bottom lip despite himself, and chewed on it to look mean. "You wanna step outside, boy?"

"Forget about it." The guy said.

This wasn't working. Davis noticed the man's date. "Hey, bitch, want a real man?"

"Fuck you," she said.

Davis breathed in and out. He had to do it. He stepped to the woman, and put a hand on her breast. "I'll give you fifty bucks, whore."

That did it. The guy stood up.

Davis had been in three fights in his whole life. One was a missed punch thrown at a guy in a swimming pool in high school, because the guy wouldn't move for Davis to dive. Another fight was against a kid in a locker room who thought Davis stole his pen. Davis hadn't but got beat anyway. The third was with his roommate in college, but it was mostly just shoving.

Davis noted the guy was taller than him after all. Davis tried to use his head. If he hit the guy, they guy might not fight back. Davis slapped him instead. The guy threw a wild right that hit Davis in the temple. It barely jarred his vision. Davis said, "Pussy," a word he hadn't said fifth grade. It had made him blush then, whispered under his breath to see what saying dirty words was like.

The guy tried an uppercut, and Davis stepped into it. His teeth clicked together and his vision blurred. Then his head snapped right and he realized the guy had gotten a good one in. He found his rhythm, because Davis felt another one on his eye, and then a few on his stomach. But it wasn't enough. Davis did a trick he learned form his brother- he jabbed at the guys face, but poked him, hard, instead of punching him. The guy lost control, and began to pinwheel. That was better. It hurt like hell. Davis fell to the ground, expecting kicks. But the guy just stood there. He was breathing hard. Davis looked up at him. He was tired. He stood up. The guy put up his fists. Davis figured he could have taken him, if he had to do. He decided to let him alone. Let pride be his payment, his reward. "You whipped my ass, I guess. Sorry about the beer."

The guy frowned and nodded his head. Confident, he grabbed Davis by his collar. "Apologize to the lady."

Davis shrugged. Why not. "Sorry, lady."

"Asshole." she said.

Davis batted the guy's hands off and went home.

The next morning he looked in the mirror. One eye was a little puffy, but barely. He shook his head- there was a twinge, but not much.

At work, Davis tried to be as rude as possible to everyone, especially the women, especially the good-looking ones. It made his stomach twinge every time. He tried to insult some of the homelier ones, and their hurt expressions were even more painful. That was better.

Davis tried another bar a few nights later. This one was a little rougher. But he had to be careful- he didn't want them to do the job for him. Davis tried whiskey, because it seemed to fit.

Davis looked at the bartender, and said, "Give me the most pussy drink you can make."

"What did you say." The bartender said back to him.

"Shirley temple, roy rogers, milk and pepsi, I don't care."

The bartender put some coke in glass and added a slice of lemon.

"Give it to that fat guy over there," Davis said. The bartender carried it over to a guy in a ripped denim jacket at the end of the bar. Davis watched the bartender point back at him, and shrug. The guy picked up his beer and walked over to Davis. "You got a problem, friend?"

He had a beard and a nose that looked like it had been broken a few times. "That your beer?" Davis said.

"What?" The guy said.

Slowly and deliberately Davis spat into the guys beer. The fellow's eyes were wide. Davis said, "Faggot."

Brilliant. Pain exploded on Davis's jaw. He felt himself fall, and there was a sharp pain in his side. He tried to stand up, and felt blood pour down his face. Then he was on the floor again. His teeth went numb and he hoped a few were broken.

Davis woke up in a hospital. His entire body hummed. He looked down at himself. No IV. He felt his head. A few bandages. Davis got out of bed. His head swam. He looked at the wall of his room. Could he head-butt it? He swayed on his feet. Suddenly his head shot forward, and there was a white light in his eyes. Then he was on the floor, and things were fading. Good. He had come a long way. But he had a ways to go yet.

Davis tried a few more bars, and found a few that suited his purposes. He tried to dish it out as much as he took it, and soon he got to be a fair brawler. He learned that a good brawler is defined as one who is still standing after receiving as many punches as he gives.

The next thing Davis did to prepare himself was to go to the humane society and buy a small kitten. It cost fifteen dollars, plus ten for neutering. He asked them if it was necessary, and they said no, but. Davis didn't want to arouse their suspicions. What did he need money for? He paid.

He drove outside of town with the kitten asleep in his lap. So trusting. He found a dirt road and traveled down it to a nice shaded area. He pulled the car to the side and killed the engine. He put his hands on the kitten. "Maybe I should name you," he said. He decided not to.

Davis put his hands on the kittens neck, and squeezed. His stomach turned over and he thought he might vomit. He bit his lip and held it back. The kitten made a small gasping noise, but died without much movement. Davis flung the carcass out the window and started his car. Drove away.

It was a long drive back, and Davis's arms shook. His stomach rolled and his jaw mashed against his teeth. He fought back tears. This was worse than any punch. But he couldn't have done it a week before.

Davis answered an ad in the paper. The couple seemed nice. "Any chance we can get you to take more than one?" The man said, laughing.

The puppy Davis held was bigger, older than the kitten had been. He was frisky. Davis smiled, despite thinking about what he was going to to with the puppy and the knife in his pocket. "I think one's all I can handle, right now."

Davis made for his car, the couple following. "Well, tell your friends. Pure Alaskan Huskie."

"I will." Davis said. He got in.

"Oh, I almost forgot," The woman said, leaning into his passenger window. "His name's Bucky"

Davis looked her in the eyes for a second. "Thank you," he said. The he drove away.

The puppy bled before it died. It hurt so bad.

Davis did one more thing before he was done. He went to a school yard. He rented a car, and drove up to a school. He watched the kids walking home. He saw a little girl, so cute it almost killed him. If I could do that, he thought, I could do it, I could really do it. He scratched his stomach. But I couldn't do that. He waited. Things began to thin out, until there were a few loners walking by themselves. Davis watched. He tried to imagine it, but it was hard. He knew he had to shock himself into it. He knew that when it was finally time to do it, it would be that mixture of impulse and resolve that would make sure it went completely right.

Then next day he came back, and watched again, in a different car. He waited. He recognized two of the loners. Both were boys. Davis recognized their backpacks.

On the third day he was ready. There were his loners. He picked the biggest one. Davis followed him in his car, then passed him. He did this for two blocks. Then the boy went into a house. Davis couldn't tell if he had a key or not. He hoped not.

Davis had replaced the plates on his car with someone else's plates, stolen. They were out-of-state tags. Davis followed the boy again. When they were near the boy's house, Davis revved it.

He narrowly missed. The boy was rigid with fear, his eyes wide. Davis jumped out of his car, sweat pouring into his eyes beneath his ski mask. He grabbed the boy with one swift motion, and threw him against a tree. The boy screamed, and Davis jumped back into his car and sped away. He could hear the boy scream as he drove away. Good. But horrible. But that was good too.

Davis watched the news that night. It was on every channel. The boy had a broken arm. He cried the whole time. Davis nodded his head when he realized he wasn't crying himself. He barely even felt like it. It was almost time. He scratched his stomach.

Davis decided to buy a television, traded his car in for one of comparable value, and ran up some credit card charges on new clothes, but he didn't max out. He couldn't go much one way or the other- the middle was the only way to the fool them. He avoided bridges, and tried to be invisible at work. Finally, on Friday, he mentioned to his boss, her secretary, and a few others that he was having big fights with his brother.

Friday night his brother showed up. "Hey, Davis."

"Hey. Come in."

"What's up."

Davis pulled some beer out of a cooler. "I'm tired of being a dickhead. Here."

His brother eyed him suspiciously. "Thanks."

They got good and drunk. At least Davis's brother did.

At two a.m. Davis's brother looked like he was ready pass out. He sat on Davis's couch, eyes at half mast. "Time to wake up, asshole." Davis said.

His brother lifted his head. "What?" Davis grabbed the cooler and tipped it over. He picked up a unopened can and threw it through the window. He ran over to the phone.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Davis picked up the receiver. He was doing it. He dialed 911. He heard an answer, and screamed. "Jesus! No Hel- he ripped the cord out of it's socket, and threw the phone at his brother.

"What the fuck! Davis!"

Davis kicked his new TV and pushed it off the stand. It made a crunching noise. Davis threw himself against his bookcase. A glass bowl holding matchbooks shattered. He felt the the glass bite into his back, and bit his lip because it didn't hurt at all. Not one fucking bit.

"Jesus christ what's the matter with-"

Davis grabbed the knife off the floor. It was a hunting knife. It was serrated. It was exactly the kind of knife you bring with you to get the job done. This was no spur of the moment knife. This was a killing knife. Davis creamed "FUCK!" and slammed it into his own belly.

His brother eyes went wide.

The pain was infinite. Davis pulled the knife out. He stabbed himself again. It was worse than any bar fight, worse than any little cat or dog or grade school boy. Davis's eyes were wide and he pulled the knife out again and again. He could hear screaming. But it wasn't his own.

Davis felt tired. The edges of his vision blurred. His insides burned. He had a few things left to do. He walked towards his brother. "Help me, he said. He fell on him. There was blood everywhere. Good. He was on the floor.

"Oh my god Davis what the fuck are you how am I what is this Davis why did you oh jesus Davis what the fuck."

Davis's brother kneeled by his body. Davis put the knife into his own left hand. He felt cold. He stabbed his right hand, three, four, five times. It hurt very much but it was a distant pain. Davis threw the knife to the side. His brother was crying. Good. He heard sirens. Even better. He nodded his head and died.