Eddie Rex: The Temper Tragedy :: Short Story Essays

Eddie Rex: The Temper Tragedy Tires scream as the limousine skids to a stop inches before it would have slammed into Eddie's posterior. Crimson anger explodes in his mind as Eddie turns with a jerk, flinging obscenities at the big man behind the wheel of the immaculate luxury car. The madness consumes him completely, dissolving all ability to reason. Eddie's boot meets the headlight of the limo. Shattering glass falls like rain on the hot asphalt. The old man in the back of the car has opened his door, not realizing the chauffer's intent to gun the engine now that the self-important moron in the street is moving around to the driver's side of the car. The limo leaps forward with a roar, sending the gray-haired man sprawling 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. Eddie's vision blurs as the murderous rage envelopes him. Blinking, he shoves away fr om the softness covering his face and falls onto the floor in a heap of sweaty blankets. After extricating himself from the jumble of cloth, Eddie stands slowly and shakes his head. "Why'd I dream that? So long ago†¦ I showed that stupid old man†¦ Thought I'd forgotten†¦." Dense, hazy thoughts cloud Eddie's head as he fights for coherence in the dim 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 job than he does had made him feel slightly inferior since their marriage. It would have been embarrassing if she'd seen him lose a fight with his bed. With a clear head and a nicely pressed Hugo Boss pinstriped suit covering his freshly washed body, Vice President Edward Rex sits behind his desk, fuming. Angry thoughts ricochet like submachine gun blasts through the dense matter occupying the central cavity of his cranium. "As if this race weren't difficult enough," he said aloud, "now the media's slandering me!" Reaching without looking to punch the intercom, Eddie succeeds in punching his index finger into the unforgiving top of his oak desk. He emits a loud, sharp exclamation followed by muttered dysphemisms concerning the desk's maternal origins. Trying again, he carefully depresses the intercom buttons with his injured index finger.