Eric paced.

Eric always paces.  He walks up and down the road, in and out of the doorways and the covered tents in his local area.  Tents that sprung up without anyone really asking for them.

Eric walked down the path to the old chopping house.  He walked inside and slowly slaughtered each of the chickens, just like his Dad used to.  It was a bit sloppy, the fashion of the cut, but it worked and it made him feel powerful.  He would lie the chicken’s head across the chopping board, put his foot on the beak, lean back and chop.  It was a familiar ritual, familiar from his earlier days.

Why did Eric choose this night to come here?  Did he have another choice that he wasn’t even looking at?  Maybe he could have gone elsewhere.

Eric is slowly being torn to pieces by his familiarity, Eric is slowly being torn to pieces by his mistakes.  Eric is a rag doll, blowing in the wind, attached to a trucker’s exhaust pipe, which is often opened wide when the trucker passes a school bus and the children gesture him to pull the horn.

Eric is torn to pieces and spread throughout the country.