Wapun Meadow boorish

Terrible and beautiful in equal parts. Merrick must be real. His own mind couldn't have possibly engineered something so complete, so close. After the brief spark from a fired gun, smoke arises. I have nothing. You have everything. Go ahead.
He wants to fell ivory towers with him. To beat up businessmen and cut his knuckles on their veneers. Justice for those who have nothing to lose. Fingers tight around collared necks and pinstripe ankles. From far away, a gavel as an electrocardigogram. Thump, thump, thump. 
Your claim, he breathes. Blood gets on the floor, on the carpet. What do you call it? It. With it, there comes a bubble of blood. He wonders if Merrick can feel this too. The feeling of being calcified into history. Of becoming myth. Making history is like pressing a scalpel to skin: the tension, the resistance, the break. 
Shame, ecstasy, neurosis, rampaging around his head, persued by an utter calm.

He is never going to sleep again.