When George approached his car in the parking lot of the mall, he stopped in his tracks. Four foot long scratches lead to a basketball sized dent on the passenger side door of his six month old Mustang.
The wound on his car caused George a physical pain. He flailed his fists in the air and unleashed a primal scream.
A mother passing nearby pulled her son’s arm. “Don’t look. Some people in this city need help.”
Rage clouded any rational thought. George had the fervent wish to become the Hulk and unleash unrelenting horror on the people who did this.
“Hulk smash!” he shouted, instinctively.
Two teenaged girls heard him. “Some people be crazy,” one teenager said to the other.
“I’m not crazy!” shrieked George, spit flying from his mouth. He wheeled around in time to watch the girls run toward the mall entrance. Their fear gave him a perverse sense of satisfaction.
George turned his attention back to his car. There, standing beside the door, was an old man. “There’s a ‘whoops.’ Well, everything changes, and not all changes are bad.”
“Was it you?” asked George, breathing heavily.
The old man smiled. “No. They took my license away a couple of years ago.”
George gave the old man a puzzled, wild eyed look.
The old man shook his head. “It’s too bad it happened to such a beautiful car. Still, it’s just a thing that can be fixed. I’m sorry all the same.” He turned around and shuffled away.
The rage that George felt slowly dissipated as he watched the old man leave. It was at that moment George learned the Hulk’s one weakness: perspective.