Eddie Rex: The Temper Tragedy :: Short Story Essays

Eddie Rex The Temper TragedyTires scream as the limousine skids to a stop inches before it would have slammed into Eddies posterior. Crimson choler explodes in his mind as Eddie turns with a jerk, flinging obscenities at the big macrocosm behind the wheel of the immaculate luxury car. The madness consumes him completely, dissolving in all ability to reason. Eddies boot meets the headlight of the limo. Shattering glass falls same(p) rain on the hot asphalt. The oldish man in the rearward of the car has opened his door, not realizing the chauffers intent to gun the engine at one time that the self-important moron in the street is moving around to the drivers situation of the car. The limo leaps forward with a roar, sending the gray-haired man wandering(a) face-up on the hard blacktop. The driver slams the brake pedal to the floor again and four other men spring from the automobile just as Eddie thrusts a three-inch knife blade into the man lying on the ground. Eddies pile bl urs as the murderous rage envelopes him. Blinking, he shoves away from the softness cover charge his face and falls onto the floor in a heap of sweaty blankets. subsequently extricating himself from the jumble of cloth, Eddie stands slowly and shakes his head. Whyd I dream that? So long agone I showed that stupid old man Thought Id forgotten. Dense, addled thoughts cloud Eddies head as he fights for coherence in the shadowy light of his bedroom. He notices with relief that Jo has already left for her morning exercise. That she is old enough to be his mother and knows far more about his melodic phrase than he does had made him feel slightly inferior since their marriage. It would have been humiliating if shed seen him lose a fight with his bed. With a clear head and a nicely pressed Hugo Boss pinstriped suit covering his saucily washed body, Vice President Edward Rex sits behind his desk, fuming. Angry thoughts ricochet akin submachine gun blasts through the dense matter occup ying the central cavity of his cranium. As if this race werent difficult enough, he said aloud, now the medias slandering me Reaching without facial expression to punch the intercom, Eddie succeeds in punching his index finger into the unforgiving top of his oak tree desk. He emits a loud, sharp exclamation followed by muttered dysphemisms concerning the desks maternal origins. seek again, he carefully depresses the intercom buttons with his injured index finger.