the More

The man driving the bus with a toilet behind it was not like them. With those drivers that make it a gradual acceleration to the speed limit he shared no commonality. The way they never even quite make it to the limit, opting rather to coast two or three kilometres an hour shy – that irked him.

The trailing port-a-loo always amused him as he drove. He liked to imagine the amusement of other drivers. Often it is the response to a spectacle, an anomaly, an outlier, that is more interesting. The forthcoming laugh often overshadows the punch line.

As he beamed along he often suffered bad driver derived adversity. At such times his rage would rise like noodle soup overlong in a microwave oven. Upon overflow he would shout bodily. He liked to imagine the trailing toilet squirting poo at the offending motorists. Like a vengeful poo shooter bandying ruthless and pointed and vile dribbles of faecal wrath. “Revenge is a dish best served cold” he’d muse, and then imagine a big dish of frozen poo served posthaste into the face of his disagreeable fellow commuters. Frosty poo daggers tearing into flesh.

Always the reason and moral within his humanity would call him back to feel shocked at himself for being so ruthlessly vindictive. Though always before this return it was rage that stayed him away from that supernatural self, and the merely natural would sustain. “It is only natural that one would desire to get the best, and sometimes getting the best means flagrant utilitarian single-mindedness.” Though the point is, the notion of morality implied in the word flagrant does not hold in nature. When his mood was like that, he’d realise that literally the only reason he wasn’t running these people off the road was the threat of incarceration, and the fact that incarceration was not in his best interest. All conscionable reason was stayed by the dam. The rage dam.

Such unconscionable mindset draws attention to the more. In absence of conscience the unconscionable becomes permissible – no longer unconscionable – in fact the word becomes irrelevant. How can something adhere to conscience or not if conscience does not exist?

But soon the absence is no more, and after the absence – upon the return of conscience – the man would pause aghast.

“What is wrong with me?” Or other times, he’d excuse himself – he’d been angry: there was a lot of bad driving going on and how’s a man to be blamed for his thoughts when subjected to such torture?

Either way, such unconscionable mindset draws attention to the more. To have moments when murder administered by frozen poo suffers you no moral repugnance is to recognise the significance of your morality.

And so, your attention is drawn to the More.

   –   Josiah Hallett


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