bring the noyz

I've heard that many times recently from several different people.

The Wife, friends, co-workers. . .

I've tried. I'm trying.

I can't. I won't.

An image lurks in the back of my mind.

It burns lowly, slowly and steadily, nearly unextinguishable, like a West Texas junkyard tire fire on an August afternoon. The dark billowing smoke clouds penetrate and poison everything they enshroud.

It is the image of The Boy: pale, puny, bloodied, gray, lying limp and almost lifeless on the cold crisp white sterility of a hospital bed; connected to blinking, beeping, buzzing machines via eight different tubes and wires.

And the voice, like razors on my spine, laughing, "I thought for a minute he had a stroke. But then I realized and laughed, The Boy can't have a stroke, The Boy doesn't have a brain!'
_______________

This is not about vengeance. "'Vengeance is mine,' saith The Lord. . ." and I do not profess to be Him. Yeah. Okay.

Who am I kidding? To some extent it is. Ms. von Munchausen damn near killed The Boy. And contrary to her protestations of innocence, her actions were intentional. I can be forgiving, but I'm not willing to be foolish.

Ms. von Munchausen has not yet been held accountable for her behavior. The police, the courts, so far. . . still. . . nothing. That means there is nothing to prevent her from packing up her lair, moving somewhere else, and doing it all again.

As long as she remains on the sunny side of the prison wall she poses a menace, threat, and outright danger to children.

At the very least, I owe it to The Boy to make sure that it never happens again.

And what did we learn a scant four months ago?

"All for the love of The Boy"
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