I yank a stick of French bread out of the freezer and wish I was a certified psychopath so I could burst into Marcus's room and beat him about the head with it and not be sent to prison. Hey, maybe I could bribe my mother to do it. I shove the baguette into the oven, thunder back to my room, and flop on to the bed. Normally I'd play the Beastie Boys to reinforce my wrath but this mood is too dark and malevolent for tunes. It demands silence. Abruptly, I'm gripped by a surge of hate so vivid I can taste its sour potency. Suddenly I'm thumping my pillow - bam! bam! bam! - and my fists are bashing Marcus's face to a pulp and I'm screaming and screaming. No words, just a long shrill blast of sound.