We were in line at a thrift store when a small child began to scream.
"I want a car I want a car I want a car I want a car," thrashing, tearing his clothes and hair, rolling on the ground with a holy passion you might describe as total.
This is how it is at night, after a pint of vodka or a magnum of red wine. Except that she has the strength and the capacity for evil of a six-foot adult.