He said, “I am in a negative, cutting, sociopathic mood. I call it ‘the lawnmower.'”

She laughed. She was always laughing. He had learned to ignore it as a pleasantry space-filler that helped to hide what she was really thinking.

“In ‘the lawnmower’, people are the grass,” he said. “You don’t want to talk with me right now.”

She made a hurt face, puckered her lips and said, “Ouch.”

He said, “The reason I am here is so that I can talk with people I don’t know, annhilate any self respect they have, bury them alive, and minimize the damage to my own world, meanwhile taking care of my urge to destroy.” He paused, a thoughtful silence–remorseful almost. Was he sorry? “It won’t be pleasant.”

“Are you okay?” she asked, with more than one question mark. The tone of her voice oozed cheap concern.

“Oh, I’m fine,” he tossed his head, but carefully. “It’s not me you should worry about. It’s THEM. Whoever. Pray that no one shows up here.”

“Okay.” She wasn’t talkative. It meant she didn’t care, or didn’t take him seriously.

He was dead serious. He said, “I am going to write a letter to someone right now. A certain Shelly.” He swallowed, “It won’t be pretty. Pray that I don’t send it.”

She stepped backward, “Then I’ll leave you to your self destuction.”

“Thank you. And I’ll leave you to your deliberation.”

They parted, but he turned around and called after her. “It’s not self destruction,” he said. “It’s destruction of other people. The lawnmower survives. It gets turned off when it is satiated with the broken blades of once living grass.”

“Or when it gets burned or electrocuted. Disposed of.”

He chuckled, “I like you. You’re feisty.”

“I need to go,” she said. She always needed to go.

“Me too.” He didn’t really, but he needed to leave her. For her good and his.

Plus, she was boring.

–She didn’t care.

He listened to her footsteps behind him as she walked away.