Boj: Chapter Three

   Boj's great grandfather was his savior on the nights when his father would go berserk.

   Alan was a quiet man of dignified bearing. He had a ready smile, which never failed to light up his features. Father was a tall, slender man with large hands and feet. Everyone mostly liked him. He was a handsome enough fellow; not so striking that men felt threatened or women intimidated. His ears were too big but they had the good sense to cling closely to the side of his head and so masked their size in his stylishly longer, dark hair. Alan had one of those straight noses with gaping nostrils but it fit his large head. His bushy eyebrows gathered near around hooded brown eyes. People liked him for his kindness, tasted his generosity, respected his opinions.

   Alan was a monster.

   That is, Alan was a monster if one accepted the notion that a monster is an animate being not naturally occurring in creation.

   His greatest failing was his inability to know himself. His moods were like tsunamis; deep movements in the tectonic plates miles below seemingly placid, powerful seas caused sudden violent outbursts.The most striking catastrophe would produce only calm in him. A reasoned, analytical set of solutions presented themselves in his mind. He moved through a reduction of problems into manageable units so as not to be overwhelmed. He considered options, discarded some, set others in motion, found the variables and persevered to an acceptable conclusion, followed by thoughtful review of what had been right and what gone wrong.

   The slightest contretemps set him into an orgy of hateful violence. Vocal, muscular, vengeful; there was no end to the pain he could inflict once he let slip the hell hounds kenneled in his superficial emotions.

   Alan did not know himself and so took his mood from others. He hated his weakness and so lashed out from another man's feelings to keep from himself any frailty others might assign him. He was a monster.

   One could not say there was no warning. His unpredictable attacks were quite predicable. He was like the bull elephant, sullen, watchful, then trumpeting his intention and lowering his head for the charge. The attacks, when they came, were lustful, hateful, never retracted. He lunged and tore and broke and swore until the spirit-demons wore out his human flesh. He might attack for seconds or minutes or a half hour. He always felt remorse. He always left destruction in his wake.

   Father was a monster.

   Great grandfather was a savior.

   The Fine China Night was the one Boj always remembered best

   Or was it the night that he remembered worst?.

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