Cantaloupe-colored skin blisters watermelon beneath an
onslaught of boiling water; Mozart plays in the background. Silvery moonlight plays along diamond
facets in a pool of wine-red blood; the train inexorably grinds across rail and
bone. The dumbwaiter snicks
quietly; a man in a tuxedo stretches fingers, choking the neck of a chilled
champagne bottle that explodes, sending glass shards and shrapnel slicing skin
like so many tomatoes. A man who
showed no mercy pleads for the very thing he denied others, even as asphalt
catches between his teeth and pavement burns across his skin. Carnage and revenge meet with a smile
of self-satisfaction; justice has been served. For me, The Punisher is that special movie. It is the outlet for all my
frustrations and anxiety. It is
the vehicle through which I channel my pent-up aggression. It is violent and bloody and full of
explosions in a way my life is not allowed to be. At the close of a bad day, somehow the smashing brings me
solace. I will not stomp feet,
slam doors, scream or yell; I will not hit or kick or throw things; I will
merely slide that shiny DVD into the player and live vicariously for a couple
of hours. I always feel better at
the end; even now my lips curl with satisfaction.
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