Kitchen Standoff
BY WILLIE SMITH I MARCH 8, 2009

Perfectly aware of wearing only underwear, I shoved my fist down the throat of a Waring blender shoplifted last year from Salvation Army. My left index stabbed the puree button. I sought the pure experience.

The engine locked into a screech. Blades bit knuckles; blood seeped, stung, itched; while from the shoulder I wrenched, beefed into it, matching downward thrust against torque.

Bitterly the stalled machine yielded stink.

Kept up pressure. Used left to key suicide prevention. Hit speaker phone. When the do-gooder answered, I blurted a bomb threat. Yelled it repeatedly, till I heard them scurry. Confident they were evacuating, I then punched off.

No turning back. Nothing now between me and the petulant convenience. Sure — yellowbelly shivers blued the flesh; lemon of a mind salted knuckles, as the stinking blade whined slightly deeper slits; but my soul rubbed hands in glee: I was gonna show more guts than Ulysses. I would choke Charybdis, throttle Progress's whirlpool — the delusion evolution has a goal, creation a crown, man a god beyond the law of tooth and claw.

Or else — bit by bit — arrive today where I'm headed anyway.

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