He's my friend.

Rancor personified. What would that mean person say? What would he be like? In this piece I try to answer that question. Truthfully, it was not that tough. Rancor is not too hard of a person to understand, because I'm angry a lot. 


Rancor doesn't like you. He probably never will. He won't even pretend but when he does his face becomes so red you might wish yourself wishing to pick it like a red apple on a shivering tree. His closet is filled with alarm clocks. And his trash bin? It's filled with broken alarm clocks. Every morning his shower spills magma on his always aching body as if the pipes are directly linked to a pluton 50 miles beneath the Earth. Speaking of the interior, Rancor wishes he could live below and away from everyone else, though if this wish were to come true he would find reason to pick a fight with dirt. Rancor's favorite restaurant is in old miner towns where his personality can be fueled by whiskey and pool sticks and where late means never and where people persist in being mean. Rancor, in his own words, would tell you as he turned his back, "I hate all you goddamn people." His voice sandpaper and a salted wound.