"You never told us about that one, about the Fire Starter guy. Why—there's nothing to be embarrassed about."

-Mescaline Franklln

When I was writing An Incident In My Incremental Death it did occur to me that I did not mine my security actions as a store manger when I was the Ghetto Grocer between September 1, 2006 and July 5, 2010. I think I stated so in 40,000 Years From Home when I went over all of my personal violence as a study. I did include a couple management situations in When You're Food, Predation and The Logic of Force. These were selected to reflect well on me as, at that time, I still had thoughts of returning to the retail food business as a consultant—which means training managers and staff.

There were around 2,900 bare bone log entries I kept over the course of my last year or two, when things got really bad in that neighborhood. I selected only five—I think—for publication.

This situation with Fire Starter never even made it into the log, because, honestly, I should have been fired and charged with assault over this.

I had received numerous reports from by parcel pickup clerks and customers about this guy, but every time I started walking towards him he would walk off. His radar was excellent. He—as far as I can tell—even stopped harassing customers on the lot. He did not even enter the store. We knew each other by gait and distant eye-contact only.

One cool, summer, Sunday night I was walking the lot. By merely appearing in my white button Shirt of Willpower, my Tie of Authority and my Spectacles of Detection, I kept the lot clear of panhandlers and purse snatchers and the old perverts that tried to molest the cashiers. Actually, I think it was my reputation as an extreme, toxic asshole that kept them away, but I prefer being a minor league super hero.

About 70 yards off, across the street in front of Miller Motors, I noticed Fire Starter, a blonde, Nordic grunger, walking with his gas can. Our eyes met and he seemed to smirk, as if he was letting me know that I was never going to touch him. This pissed me off. I looked over my shoulder to make sure none of my staff or customers were coming outside and lit off after him. He had plenty of lead and longer legs, but he tripped on the broken sidewalk behind the Hubcap as he tried to make his way up the back street and I was on him, vigilante asshole, breaking the law, abandoning my professional responsibility—and enjoying the momentary bliss of abrupt devolution!

This was nothing but him plucking nerves that had been worn raw by my employment as the step daddy to 110 dysfunctional souls and the adopted brother of two silver spoon psycho-bitches.

I kept that buried until I saw the asshole again yesterday morning. By now, I am so far down this writing rabbit hole I am nigh unemployable above the lowest levels, by the laxest private employers, so I exposed myself for being a douchebag on fire, once upon a dreary time, in the gutter of a septic municipality called Harm City.