That kid was the one who should be locked away. She'd pushed his buttons bringing home that mangy cat and argued. Her voice just irritated the shit out of him. And yes, he would admit, things shoulda coulda gone a different way. But from start to finish, the entire twenty-four hours were a dirty, rotten, why-hadn't-he-stayed-in-bed day.

A killer headache hit him on waking. Excuse the pun! The pain, no doubt delivered by the other bitch. The kid's mother always whining for him to come home earlier. He would have come home earlier if she made it worth his while. She was the headache.

Work was shit! That was his total comment on that place.

Need to let you go, the boss had told him that morning.

No apologies. No payout.

"Al, you're a casual laborer. You know how this works. Last in, first out."

That's how bullshit worked. Others had worked there less time than him. So triple bullshit.

By the time he got back to the two-bed hole, a furnace was alight in his gut. He'd tried extinguishing the anger with a few drinks on the way but the alcohol was like kerosene to his emotional flame.

Gonna kill someone.

Before all this, the idea occasionally shuffled around inside his head. His hands circling the neck of an imaginary enemy and stopping their heart. These thoughts popped in with his everyday musings as if a coin was inserted through a slot in his head.

Play that killer song one more time Al.

Murder wasn't front and center on his bucket list. No way.

Hurt the heck out of someone? Yes, but kill?

Murder landed you in jail and that didn't fit his plans. He enjoyed hanging out with his buds after work at Ted's and he loved his food. And women? He liked them too. Doing time because someone annoyed you wasn't worth it.

Shoulda coulda thought of that, he told himself as he stared out from the bars of his cell.

Damn, he'd love a burger and fries. Pizza. Even if it wasn't the super supreme kind with everything thrown on. None of this eye-tie-Italian, wilted-lettuce and scraps of sausage, party-princess crap for him.

How things change. With the inedible slop they fed them here, party-princess crap would do fine, and he'd enjoy the shit out of it too.

Fourteen years they gave him. Quadruple bullshit!

Fourteen years dreaming of a decent pizza and ugly women. He wouldn't allow his mind to drift past ugly or he'd slit his throat from frustration. Little wonder inmates turned violent.

He did want to inflict violence on his attorney though. That should be considered fair and legal. Man, give him the idiot, a knife and a quiet room, and he'd do the world a favor.

The stupid, weasel-faced moron suggested he apologize to the brat. Supposedly, showing remorse might lessen his sentence. Alan didn't have to think too hard on agreeing. No way he wanted to die in this joint. Period. No question marks.