Jakob’s ice cream

“I’ll stab you square between your eyes, vile scorpion blooded motherfucker”, Jakob shouted at the olid man standing right in front of him. His undersized yellow stained tank top wasn’t very becoming, neither was the sweat that was dripping down his armpit hair. The stench was atrocious and hardly bearable.

Of course Jakob was a coward and never really shouted. He just stood there thinking all these wonderful thoughts.

The day had started so great in te suburban cement ridden shithole that was his hometown. It was summertime and most of his friends were on vacation. So most of his days were spent alone. Which suited Jakob just fine. He could now wander in the woods and sacrifice his pigeons to Zarathustra without having to sneak around.

Walking back home he had noticed carvings in one of the trees. It was extremely detailed; a goluptious depiction of a strangling. It made Jakob jealous, such craftsmanship was years in the making. And Jakob  lacked the finesse, talent and focus to commit to such a craft. A sour turn to a fine walk.

On arriving back in his street he heard the melody heralding the ice cream truck. He felt his pockets to find some odds and ends that could pay for a pitiful and tasteless soft serve. That’s when he saw the moloch of repulsion. The man in the stained tank top. In his mind Jakob called him Ronnie Sourmilk. Jakob moves closer to the truck and stood in line. Sourmilk arrived seconds later but jumped the queue and he had to stare at his sweaty back. The pungent putrid smell of stale sweat penetrated his nostrils, like fog coming over the mountains, fascinating but blinding.

One can only take so much. And the sweat that dropped on his brand new sneakers was the drop that made the bucket overflow. He fingered his knife in his pocket and contemplated the consequences and the best moves. He slowly drew his knife.

Behind him someone yelled: “Watch out. He has a knife!”

Sourmilk slowly turned around as Jakob lunged for his axillary artery right through the curtain of sweat that was his armpit. Sourmilk’s reaction was totally worth it. The surprise and daft look on his face as he grabbed his arm and started spray painting the pavement with his own blood. Jakob stood over the body, victorious as the queue disappeared with shrieks of horror and dismay. The ice cream man, trembling, took Jakob’s order and hid behind the counter. Jakob sat down on the big fat flab of Sourmilks stomach that started to move slower and slower as it breathed its final breaths and finished his extremely mediocre ice cream.