Captain Cut-Throat Returns.

"You better get your hands off my sweater vest before I cut you."

No one is more shocked to hear me say this than I am, but what's even more shocking is that I meant every bloody word of it. My nostrils flaring, my eyes becoming wide, nearly pupil-less, and insane. Every molecule of my sweaty, tired body about to implode and obliterate the men's department of Kohl's in the violent energy-consuming power of the black hole that had already formed in my heart. I had been searching for this exact article of clothing for nearly three hours at this point. They adorned every mannequin in every shop I entered, but they were not to be found on any shelf or rack or backroom. I had all but given up hope, but I still continued my search and now I stood in my eighth clothing store of this entirely too aggravating afternoon and this man... This man appears out of nowhere to snatch my victory right from me in my most redeeming moment of shopping hysteria with a smile and a slap to the face. This man with his firm and unwavering hair line, his smug smirk hiding a perfect set of bleached teeth, the brilliant blues of his smiling eyes - This magnificent and poor bastard was about to get hurt. Very, very badly. We were both still clutching the sweater vest between us. I had cut him off in the middle of his ridiculous sentence. It was something like.

"Oh, that's perfect. You weren't really going to buy this, were you? It would go perfectly with-"

That's when I threatened to cut him and we've been deadlocked in a silent stare down with each other ever since. Our faces have become perfect mirror images reflecting equal parts of disgust and horror like imaginary mime ping pong balls back and forth between us.

"Maybe you didn't hear me or perhaps I didn't express myself adequately. Allow me to rectify the situation." I lean in. He flinched a little. I spit vitriol as I harshly enunciate each terrible syllable in no more than a whisper into his face. "You better take your damned hands off my fucking sweater vest or so help me I will rip you apart right here and now and redecorate this place with what's left of your broken, battered corpse and paint the room a nice, new shade of you. And then, I'll take my sweater vest to the check out counter and go on with my day. So, I'll ask you again to reconsider the consequences of your actions. Is it worth it? You better be sure, because I am." I breathe deeply. I'm shaking. I am trying to regain my composure and not release my anger monkeys to go completely bat shit crazy on this man and everything within a 5 mile radius. But, I have been searching for this garment all afternoon and if this guy thinks he's just going to casually step up and rob me of it... Well, that's not going to happen. What is going to happen? Either he is going to slowly release the sweater vest, give me a terrified look of reproach, and disappear as quickly and quietly as possible OR we are going to have our own very extreme death match brawl between the hanging slacks and silk shirt racks. He very wisely chooses the first, less physical option. I sigh. Victory through testosterone and adrenaline fueled dominance is such a beautiful feeling. It feels a lot like love.

I should add that an associate of mine suggested, and then lent me, the Katt Pack to watch. Katt Williams. Very, very funny man. He swears more than I ever could, which is saying a lot since I just love sparsely accenting my work with various profanities. I had watched two of the four discs that morning. In that moment when I felt the moment slipping away from me and into the hands of that man, all of the gears in my head screeched to a halt and only my temporary cache was accessible.

Yes, I channeled the spirit of a very hostile, angry, short-statured black man. I was pimping hard and thugging it up. Although, to be honest, Katt Williams seems like a pretty laid back dude. Like me, most of the time. I guess I shouldn't blame him. It's not his fault I'm a complete lunatic and clothing nazi. That is all me. Still...

"Cracker!" I called after him. I then admired my prize. Then, the unthinkable happened. "You have to be joking. Perfect." The size indicated on the hanger was not compatible to the size on the tag sewn into the collar. Small. Small? Small! Disaster. Predictably and classic me. Very typical. I had just threatened to destroy a man over a sweater vest I could only wear if I sawed myself in half right down the center of my body. I chuckled, nervously, and hung the sweater vest back on the rack. I then made my exit from the store - possibly just missing the welcoming embrace of security personnel - and drove like a mad man until I cleared the threshold of the rage-inducing aura of the mall.

Anyway, I did manage to find suitable attire for the interviews I'll be conducting on Wednesday, minus the fabled sweater vest that simply wasn't to be. The opportunities afforded to me to dress up rather than down are so few and rare that I really wanted to make the most out of the experience. Oh well, at least I'll be able to wear a tie again. That will have to suffice.